


Lost In The Wood

by Walkietalkie (Write_like_an_American)



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, And if you insinuate he is, But is not a bitch, Closeted Character, Flashbacks, Good Brother Merle, Hate Sex, He will kill you, Homophobia, In which Merle likes to bitch, Kinda, M/M, Merle Being an Asshole, Minor Character(s), Multi, Now with (slight) smut! :D, Racist Language, Sexism, Slurs, Slurs aplenty, T-Dog arrives in Chapter 3, The slashiness increases from hereon out, Woodbury, basically Merle Dixon's filthy mouth, minor character appreciation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-22 10:03:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 50,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6075120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Walkietalkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merle's so far in the closet he's teetering on Narnia. But none of that matters. There are bigger weights on Merle's mind: namely the zombie apocalypse, avenging his favorite hand, and (most importantly) finding his lost baby brother.</p><p>What happens in Woodbury stays in Woodbury though. Right...?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Nobody seems to share my love of the meanest, toughest, nastiest badasses secretly being supergay and loving to take cock. I'm rectifying that.

Daryl’s the only one who knows.

Daryl’s the only _living_ one who knows, Merle oughta say. He bets da had his suspicions – it would explain why he started whaling on him so early, from before ma died. Little faggot even at that age. Hence why Merle’d started beating up the other boys, because if he weren’t allowed to _like_ them he’d settle to _fight_ ‘em instead. And well, being around his father had given ample opportunity for honing his skills in that regard. Merle’s grateful he popped the ol’ fucker off before the dead started crawling again, fun as it woulda been to kill him twice… 

Well. That’s a lie. 

Merle didn’t _kill_ his father. Not technically. But when he found him overdosed, he sure as heck didn’t call an ambulance. 

At the time, Merle had thought it was only himself he was avenging. He curled his lip at the man twitching in a puddle of his own drug-stinking piss and stalked through to the living room, where two grungy old mattresses lay side by side. The occupant of the second peered out blearily from his cocoon and asked “Merle? Tha’ you? Wazzup?” in a voice crackling with sleep-grit. He waited for Merle’s hoarse “Nothin’, bro,” before bundling the unwashed sheets to his chin and unquestioningly shutting his eyes. 

Merle suggested they party it up the next night, after they’d trudged into the kitchen and found da cold and purpled on the tiles. However Daryl, being a wet little shit, opted to spend the night glumly poking at ma’s grave, where it sat out back of their ramshackle house beneath the stooping boughs of an ancient Buckeye tree. 

(That was where Merle had nailed his first squirrel. Eight years later, Daryl had copied him, and two years after that, while Merle was in juvie, the boy had dumped the sheet-wrapped ashy residue that’d once been their ma to the bottom of a six-foot hole and heaped enough dirt over it that the coyotes wouldn’t dig her out again. It was, in Merle’s opinion, more than she deserved.) 

Merle figured that since their old man never smacked Daryl around the muppet might actually miss him. He hadn’t been complaining though; no Daryl meant he could go where he liked. And where he liked was Atlanta City, where the booze was cheap, the cocaine cheaper, and the fags plentiful. So, without further ado, he’d given Daryl a farewell noogie and the council man heaving da’s bloated corpse a wave, flipped the bird at the gathered army of gawkers, and hopped on his bike. He gunned along the long, dusty roads until he was far enough from their cruddy backwater town that the sight of his face didn’t make people spit. 

To be honest, he didn’t blame them. Merle’d run away at eighteen and returned boasting only a dishonourable discharge and bulked-out penitentiary record to his name. Folks had been wary of him before. But nowadays he was the same square-jawed, stubble chinned, mean-eyed motherfucker he’d always been with more muscle and attitude on the side. That wariness turned to silence when he passed and whispers behind his back. 

_That’s my brother_ , he remembers hearing Daryl boast once, before Merle’d deemed him big enough to face their father alone and Daryl still knew what a goddam smile was. _Feed him a hammer, he’ll crap out nails._

His reputation was probably all that’d kept Daryl from getting the shit kicked out of him at school. Merle didn’t care about the odd beating – built character, that. Their kind got forged by spite. Call ‘em ‘redneck trash’ enough and they became it, punch ‘em and they got up and hit you harder. But he reckons it’d be a helluva lot worse if all those assholes who side-eyed Daryl on the playground, with his dirty, hole-filled uniform and lice-shaved hair, knew his big brother loved nothing more than riding dick. So while Merle had built his image around giving zero shits for what anyone thought, there were certain… _things_ that couldn’t be said out loud. For both their sakes. 

He’d had a good life going on though, before dad died. Forty years of being the toughest fag in Georgia meant you got used to keeping secrets. Merle’d perfected the secret drug-snort, along with the secret sidle into an alley where an underground club was demarcated by a pink neon light. Admittedly, it’d taken a while to perfect the first to the degree of second – and while there were ample opportunities for getting fucked behind bars, everyone in prison had this dumb-ass idea that if you preferred catching to pitching that made you some sorta dame. 

Fuck that. Merle was as dude as they came. (And he had come, intensely and loudly, more than enough to prove it.) 

But that was why it was important that only Daryl knew, because only Daryl seemed to _get it:_ Daryl, who as far as Merle knew had never looked at nobody, male nor female. Musta been something sour in daddy’s seed, for the both of them to turn out freaks. 

But Daryl, for all his defects, is the best lil’ brother a guy like him could ask for. Because once upon a time, he’d walked in on Merle getting fucked by a club-buddy who’d happened to be passing through town. And he shrugged, mumbled an apology, and ambled back out again. 

*** 

Merle’s eyes crack. 

It’s almost literal, like the splitting of mud in the desert. 

He can hear his heartbeat. Too loud. Too sluggish. Either he’s spinning or the world is; one of them’s more logical than the other, but he can’t for the life of him work out which. 

Above him, the sun wobbles in jellified heat-haze. It twists nauseatingly, a glaring ribbon of gold, and when he throws up a hand to shield himself the light glides right through it as if it doesn’t exist. His skin’s crawling off him in sunburnt shreds, antsy drug-lust battering about his skull. He’s so hot, so frazzled and fried. He needs another hit, and he doesn’t know where his hand’s gone, and he can’t _think…_

When the shadow of the walker falls over him, it’s easier to collapse into fever-sleep than fight the inevitable. Which is why Merle’s too busy dreaming, too busy _remembering_ , to see the walker’s shambling passage halt and its head turn, before a bullet explodes from behind its ear and it goes flailing to the sun-baked earth. 

*** 

His lil bro ain’t never been the talkative type. Merle spouts enough shit for both of ‘em, he figures. Sometimes it irritates him how Daryl’ll just sit tight and _watch_ with those beady black eyes of his, like one of them birds ma used to feed crumbs to when they came to the kitchen windowsill: ready to flap at the too-fast raise of a hand. But he’s sure as hell grateful for his silence the next day. After he’s booted the guy out – was kind enough to throw him his pants on the way – and given him the usual run-down (“Don’tchu say nothin’, or I’ll hunt ya down and chop off that pretty cock of yours; you hear me?”) he decides hiding in their makeshift bedroom’s for pussies and storms out to face Daryl’s judgment. 

Daryl is pouring cereal into a chipped pewter bowl, chewing a dry handful with open mouth. Their dad’s outta town. Merle’s just back from his first stint in prison and is pushing twenty-one, while Daryl is eight years his junior. 

Kid’s rapidly approaching the age where he’ll drop outta high school, like Merle did and their father and his father before. From what Merle’s been able to piece together since he got out the slammer and chose moving in with dad over sleeping rough, Daryl boredly picks his nose through half his classes and bunks off the rest. Good kid. Evidently, playing hookie’s taught him right. Rather than spewing all that Biblical bollocks shouted by the pastor (ma’d dragged them to church every Sunday morning, in the days before their dad went from the occasional beer to week-long, punch-strewn benders) Daryl just yawns. He scoots the bowl to Merle’s place, and digs out another handful for himself. 

Merle rolls his eyes, but accepts the peace offering. “Thas gross. Use a plate or summin’, wouldya?” 

“Thas the last one.” Daryl crunches through his mouthful, half-mushed cornflakes stuck to his lips. “Others’r’ll dirty.” 

Merle’s been expecting confrontation, been preparing for it even – but hey, this is just as fun. Smirking, he straddles his chair and plucks a rubbery flake. They’re stale, and he can smell from over here that the milk’s off. “Well, why don’tcha wash up then, numbnuts?” 

Daryl eyes him warily, seemingly not needing to breathe between shovelling more in. “Cause I’m goin’ to school.” 

Merle tuts. “You’re the only one in this house not earnin’ his keep, Darylina.” 

“Can’t work and do school, can I.” 

That earns him a flake flicked at his face. It catches in his ratty brown hair. Shoulder length – Merle’s gonna have to lop it off soon. Can’t have his baby brother going round looking like a sissy. “Naw, butcha can do the washing up. So git, dumbass. Before I make ya.” He makes a sudden lunge, not actually leaving his seat but making to. The crash of his knees and palms on the table makes Daryl jump like a spooked cat, shoulders hitching past his ears. He spills cornflakes all over the floor. When he scampers to the sink, his shoes crunch through them like he’s jogging on gravel. Merle laughs. “Sweep them up too, yeah? School don’t start properly before nine; they won’t give no shits if ya miss registration. Heck, probably won’t notice. Or care.” 

Usually, this far into a conversation is when he starts talking to himself, because his surly lil prick of a brother’s used up his word quota for the day. Which is why Merle’s surprised when Daryl’s head pops above the table line – boy’s crawling about with the dustpan and brush as he’s been told, which is the only reason Merle ain’t giving into temptation and flicking more flakes to make his job harder. 

“Can ya take me to the woods after you’re done work then?” he asks, and relief punches Merle like a hard right hook. 

Nothing’s changed. His little brother knows who he is, _what_ he is, and _nothing’s changed._

Merle grins, a miser-thin whisker of benevolence germinating. He nods. “Sure, lil bro. Whoever catches the fattest squirrel doesn’t have to muck out the fridge.” 

*** 

Of course, when Merle loses, he bitches so much that Daryl winds up helping anyway, if only to shut him up. 

It’s early evening. They’re gagging together, struggling to keep their cornflakes where they belong. Merle’s entered the midden headfirst because he’s a fuckin’ badass and he ain’t afraid of no mould-monster. Daryl, more wary, has opted to hold the bucket with one hand and pinch his nose with the other. When he asks the question – the one Merle’s been waiting for – it emerges in a nasally mosquito-whine. 

“So you like boys then?” 

Merle bangs his head. Something best left identified dribbles down his face from the shelf above. “Issat your business, Darylina?” he jibes, trying to pretend his jaw ain’t itching with the urge to clench. This morning went better than he could’ve hoped. If Daryl ruins it now… Fuck, Merle’ll forcefeed him the sponge. 

“Naw.” They work in silence a moment longer, Merle scrubbing furiously at an old mildew wad ingrained into the plastic fridge walls. Daryl dunks the dirty sponge with obedient diligence when it’s passed back to soak. Merle’s the one to break the quiet, like he always is. 

“Why you askin’? Gotta problem?” It comes out, if such a thing is possible, more hostile than intended. He hears Daryl’s knuckles creak around the wire bucket handle. 

“Naw,” his little brother whispers again. Jiggles his knees – Merle hears them bang against the old copper, hears the water inside shift and slop – and fidgets back and forth as if he’s absorbing Merle’s discomfort with this whole conversation via astral projection. 

“Good. Cause I wouldn’t give a shit otherwise.” Except, for Daryl, he just might. Huffing, Merle extracts himself from the bowels of their stinking refrigerator and rolls to his feet, stiff muscles protesting. “Awright,” he says, jabbing Daryl in his reedy chest. “I’m too big to get the back bits, so yer gonna have to crawl in there. If yer lucky, I won’t shut the door and forget about ya.” 

Daryl actually looks scared at that. He flinches away from the fridge’s greasy depths. But when Merle gives him an encouraging pat on the shoulder, he takes a deep breath (the last clean one he’ll have in a while) and descends to the squelching deep. Without the feeling of those eyes on his neck, Merle’s able to pay adequate attention to each potential phrase he could say next, and cross them off one by one. 

_Thank you for not caring._

_Don’t tell nobody._

_Don’t tell nobody, but especially don’t tell dad._

Daryl ain’t stupid. He’s got Merle’s back like Merle’s got his. They’ll watch out for each other until they’re both in the ground. Merle knows, _believes_ , that he can trust him with this. 

“Awright, bro,” he settles on, tapping his socked toe on Daryl’s. “I’m feelin’ generous. I got me a payout today, so if you n’me get done here before dad gets home –“ _From the bar, where he’s drinking every damn penny he’s made,_ “ – What’s say we go sort grub for the next week?” 

As any growing kid, Daryl perks at the promise of food. He puts his back into it, working the sponge with dizzying determination. “Awright!” 

He doesn’t say ‘thanks’ either. Like Merle, he doesn’t need to. 

*** 

So when he cracks open his eyes to the vibrant sunlight of a summer's morning, a pillow beneath his head and stump-wrist cleansed, numbed and bound in soft white bandages and feeling more refreshed than after a fresh hit of cocaine, the first thing Merle thinks is that he’s dead. Those asshole Baptists can go fuck themselves; looks like fags go to heaven after all. Figuring he’ll see Daryl soon enough, he doesn’t bother pushing to sit. Just shuts his eyes. Takes a moment. And basks. 

Although if this’s heaven, couldn’t God’ve given him back his hand? Merle ain’t gotten fucked since this whole zombie-debacle started. While he’ll jerk it or sit on his fingers quite happily on his lonesome, it’s preferable to do both at once. What’s heaven without masturbation? 

The door opens. In walks some guy – further confirming Merle’s doubts about the holiness of this place. Surely Heaven’s room service would be a bunch of tanned and muscular speedo-sporting lifeguards. Not... _this_. 

A tall man. Lanky-ish, with a rounded face soft as that damn Chinaman’s (Merle’ll break it when he next sees him, swell those slit-eyes shut with the weight of his fists). And his eyes… 

Well, Merle ain’t never been a poet. He knows ‘Dead’ wouldn’t be right though, not when he staggered out of Atlanta with a groaning horde of walking corpses on his heels. But there’s something about them, something cold and unfeeling and automaton… 

…Something which Merle doesn’t get a moment more to contemplate, because the little lapdog-man bouncing on the tall one’s heels ceases his yammering long enough to point and gasp. Merle doesn’t feel up to talking. He waves. 

Bespectacled Shortass sputters, too surprised by Merle’s consciousness to form coherent sentences. It falls on his companion to break the ice. That’s a good thing; it’s been thickening without interruption as Merle pushes himself to sit, eyes flicking for a possible escape. 

“You’re awake!” the man says, sounding surprised and a little pleased. Genuine too. Apocalypse musta made Merle paranoid though, because despite the fact that everything about this man exudes nicety, all Merle’s brain’s reading is _danger_. “We honestly weren’t sure if you’d make it. How’re you feeling?” 

“Like I cut my hand off,” Merle croaks. His throat’s so dry he doesn’t get halfway before starting to hack and cough. Next moment Beanpole’s there, elbowing Bespectacled Shortass away with undue gentleness. He grabs a glass off the table – they have clean water? – and tips it to Merle’s parched lips. Then away again, when Merle’s thirsty chugging turns to inhalation. 

Wouldn’t that be the kicker; surviving the rooftop and the run, only to choke to death on water? 

Beanpole’s there though, cheerfully pounding between Merle’s shoulderblades – no time to freak about his shirt being off, scars bared for the world to see. Beanpole pounds a little too enthusiastically in the end. Merle spits up on his lap, in a way he hasn't done since he was a wee thing. Water and phlegm and druggie-puke and whatever else gross shit he’s had in his mouth since the last time he saw a toothbrush, now stored outside rather than in. De- _light_ -ful. 

“You’ve been going through withdrawal,” Beanpole explains, once Merle’s settled with fresh sheets and is holding his cup on his lonesome, sipping measured and slow. “On top of heatstroke and fever from the infection.” His smile quirks at one edge, although his eyes don’t collaborate. “You’re quite the tough one, aren’t you?” 

Merle glances at the IVs punching his wrists and inner-elbows. _Don’t feel it at the moment_. “Thas right,” he says. “How soon before I’m movin’?” 

“The doctor said one week of bedrest minimum, then take it slowly for the next fortnight. We’ll help you every step of the way –“ 

“I’ll be up tomorrow.” 

Bespectacled Shortass takes that as his cue, coughing into his pudgy fist and adjusting his glasses over his turned up pug-nose. “Um, no you won’t. For your own health, Mr…” 

“Dixon, call me Merle. And I betcha now, this time tomorrow I’ll be pissin’ out that window.” 

Beanpole’s mouth makes that funny twitch again. “I’d really rather you didn’t. Your accommodations overlook the schoolyard. Now, before we let you rest Mr Dixon –“ 

“Merle.” 

“Merle, let me make a brief introduction. Our town is called Woodbury. It’s a haven of sorts, from the nightmare we pulled you out of. No one’s infected, and we all pitch in and do our bit to survive – an effort you are more than welcome to join.” He cuts Merle off before he can scoff. “Please though, don’t think about that yet. You’re welcome to leave if you want to. But I’d rather you stay until you’re on your feet, fed, and weaponized.” He notices Merle’s gaze sliding to the shorter man, who’s fiddling with whatever juice he’s hooked up to in the background. Beanpole gives a broad plastic smile. “This here is my assistant, Milton. He’s come to fit you for a prosthetic, although that can wait until you’ve slept.” 

Now he thinks about it, he is dozy. Being in a fevered unconscious haze apparently doesn’t get you much in the way of REM. Merle fights a yawn. “And you?” 

Beanpole’s shoulders relax, opening his posture to something friendly and warm that makes those heebie-jeebies crawling along Merle’s spine accelerate to full-out gallop. “I’m the leader of this place,” he says, holding out his left hand to shake. “You can call me ‘the Governor’.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please comment! Think of it as payment for awesome fic.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CN: use of n-word, general sexism & misogyny. Sorry. D:**

Well, the Governor can suck his ass. And not in the fun way.

Merle doesn’t like taking orders. He’ll do it when it’s necessary; it’s why he lasted a whole year in the military before punching his asshole serge in the gob, and it’s why he could hold a job for more than a month back in the days when things like _money_ and _punctuality_ and _customer service_ meant shit. 

They still do, he discovers, in Woodbury. 

Not so much the first one. People trade food and favours rather than coin, and Merle immediately sets to thinking what he can do, where he’ll be useful, how he’ll make himself indispensable to this project – probably on the walls, sniping walkers from afar – before remembering that he ain’t gonna be here long enough to earn himself a shiny reference. He’s gotta get back out there. He’s gotta find his brother. 

Daryl’s alive, he knows it. He’s a Dixon. He’s tough at heart, regardless of how often he acts like a pussy. Even if the rest of that group’s zombie chow, Daryl’ll still be kicking. Heck, Merle wouldn’t have put it past him to split the moment he found out they’d left him on that rooftop; Daryl must have fought his way through the zombie hordes, found his hand, and stormed off on his own expedition, determined to find his wayward brother. 

Yes, Merle can picture it in exquisite detail. Daryl gone wild: turning his crossbow on Officer Friendly, punching the chink, headbutting that stupid fat nigger hard enough to turn his flat nose concave and hollering like a banshee the whole damn while. He’ll gut the lot of ‘em. Ladies too – that prissy brunette who came charging over to collar her son the moment she spied him pestering a grunting Daryl about how to catch squirrel; the mouthy blonde who’d loudly proclaimed that she’d shoot anyone she caught looking twice at sister (while glaring at Merle the whole while, as if she expected him to rip off her dress and go at her there and then. Dumbass bird. No wonder he don’t like women.) 

No doubt about it; Daryl’s tearing the world apart looking for him. Merle knows because he’d do the exact same in Daryl’s place. But try as he might, there ain’t no way Daryl will find him here. 

When he tells the Governor though – hell knows _why_ when it ain’t his business, but Merle’s Merle and can’t keep his mouth shut for long, and he must still be on some kinda juice because when the Governor asks why he’s so keen to leave everything comes spilling out, albeit laced with a lot more malice and curses against those a-holes who abandoned him on that rooftop in the first place – the man’s got his answer ready like he’s been rehearsing it before a mirror. 

“Why?” he asks. 

Merle puffs up, ready to explode. _Because he’s my brother, ya fuckface. Not that a slimy wetnose like you’d know anything about blood._ Somehow, improbably, the Governor stunts the burgeoning tirade with a simple raise of his hand. “Hear me out. Why wouldn’t he find you here?” 

Merle, true to his word, had creaked out of bed that morning, if only to give Bespectacled Shortass something to stick in his pipe and smoke. It wasn’t his wisest decision. Legs are all wobbly. Casual lean on the windowsill’s more a boneless slump. His arm’s a pruned branch, sawn off too soon, and tough bastard he might be but he can’t look at it too long before his brain tries to convince him the hand’s still there, floating just outta sight on an astral plane. It’d be a lie to say he’s _had worse_. But he’s survived bad shit before, and what’s this but another grind of the mill? He’s up. He’s alive. And he’ll be kicking zombie tail with Daryl in no time. 

He’d considered pissing out the window just to see if he could nark the Governor off. But, once he’d lumbered over, stump-wrist cradled carefully to chest, he’d instead found himself entranced by the eerie tranquillity of Woodbury at midday. Brats scampered and skipped around the playground (oddly quiet; they must’ve learnt the hard way that out here, cheerful screams could be deadly). An old coot guided a dog as grey and feeble as he was along the clean-swept pavement. Some brown dame in a sundress stood with her bare legs gleaming in the fierce sun (Merle held up a hand to shade his eyes, suddenly back on that rooftop, and cringed when bandages smacked his forehead rather than a wrist). She was slapping suds all over her front window. 

Everything was… normal. Peaceful. And it felt _safe_. 

Of course, Merle knows that was smoke and mirrors. Ain’t nowhere _safe_ no more. But this place is as close as it gets. Merle wouldn’t be able to fake it like the townspeople, wouldn’t be able to pretend he hasn’t seen the shit he’s seen and sink back into a lazy life fixing cars and fastening roof-guttering, not when the damn zombie apocalypse is happening beyond their walls. But could he make a name for himself by helping to maintain this illusion? 

Tempting. But not without Daryl. 

So, when the Governor’s words percolate the vitriolic haze that lowers across his vision whenever some fucker tries to keep him from his brother, Merle scoffs and leans out the window to spit. The sunburn across his face, shoulders, arms and chest has faded, but the skin’s tenderer than usual and the prickle of Georgia heat makes him wince. “Fuck off,” he says. “Just cause yer mamma told ya to stay put when ya got lost in the shopping mall, don’t mean the same goes for me an’ my bro. We ain’t like you people. We’re hunters. Trackers. We always find each other.” 

“I’m sure,” says the Governor. His patient voice makes Merle’s teeth itch. “All I’m saying is, we run frequent patrols outside the walls. With our cars and stockpiled petrol I daresay our reach extends further than yours alone on foot.” 

Merle squints at him. “Whatchu sayin? That I can take one of yer jeeps and trawl the countryside for Daryl? Are ya stupid as well as crazy?” 

…Perhaps he shouldn’t have included that last bit. Perhaps the Governor _is_ both those things: dumb enough to give Merle supplies that folks kill for nowadays, loony enough to send him on his way and expect him to return. Nevertheless, he opened his mouth so he’s gotta face the consequence. Merle stares the Governor down, and finds – to his surprise – that that plastic amusement has ceded to something a little more real. 

“I certainly hope not,” the Governor says. Then, before Merle can kick himself for scuppering his chances of driving outta here with an all-terrain jeep and a trunkful of guns – “I’m afraid I couldn’t allow you to take a car for a personal quest. You understand, the needs of the community must come first.” No skin off Merle’s nose. He’ll wait til he’s been allowed free reign, then steal one. “However,” the Governor continues, expression returning to its usual elastic replica of emotion. “Our patrols roam far and wide. You’d be more than welcome to join them – and to bring your brother back, should you find him.” 

Tempting. Not as tempting as ramming a truck through the walls and not having to answer to nobody. Merle crosses his arms – then rearranges when the stump grazes his opposite bicep, swallowing hard. “You’re bein’ awful trusting of me,” he says, as his eyes trace the slither of soap and water down the Negro woman’s arms. “Why.” Because hard as this place is trying to cling to its humanity, Merle knows the apocalypse has released the animals within. Governor’s gotta have some other plan. Merle’d be underestimating him if he thought otherwise. 

Sure enough, the Governor’s blink is slow and telling. “I believe that your help would be invaluable,” he says. Merle _doesn’t_ believe that’s all the Governor’s got to hold him in sway, not for one second – but at least here’s a sweet chance to call bullshit. 

“What?” he mocks, waving his truncated limb. “Ol’ cripple like me?” 

The Governor fakes that half-smile that Merle’s coming to detest. “Merle, I think both you and I know that the lack of a hand is not going to stop you from doing whatever you please. All I want is to convince you that it’s in your best interests – the interests of _you and your brother_ – to make this place as secure as possible. So that when you find him, you have somewhere to come back to.” 

That’s the dumbest thing Merle’s ever heard. Governor’s an educated type; he’s gotta know nothing lasts for ever, places like Woodbury least of all. Merle’s about to inform him of this, loudly and obnoxiously, when the door of his ward-room opens. Bespectacled Shortass waddles in, arms piled to the chin with scribble-covered notepads. The writing’s been crammed in every-which-way to save valuable resources: vertical, horizontal, diagonal. Looking at it gives Merle vertigo. 

“Governor! The patrol’ve returned from their field run and are awaiting debrief, and I have reports from our latest…” Bespectacled Shortass spies Merle. His voice trails off. 

Merle grins, relishing the way the man's lip wobbles guppy-like around the aborted words. “Don’t chu mind little ol’ me,” he croons. “I’mma fly on the wall.” Evidently, they’ve gotten so used to him being unconscious that they’re accustomed to saying whatever they like over his body. 

…Coming to think of it, who wiped Merle’s ass when he was going through withdrawal fits? Merle sure hopes Woodbury’s big enough to have a bed nurse, preferably one he’ll never have to look in the eye again. 

A quick glance at the Governor shows that he’s not best pleased with Bespectacled Shortass’s interruption – he quashes it when he notices Merle watching. “Thank you Milton,” he says ( _that_ was his name!) “I’ll be there shortly.” 

“R-right.” Still side-eyeing Merle, Miltie rebalances his notebook stack by undulating his jaw, and scurries for the exit. Merle waves him away, remembering at the last moment that if he uses his right hand it’ll be kinda redundant. 

“Bye, Miltie!” 

There’s a squeak from the corridor, and the sounds of several notepads slapping floor. 

“I should go,” says the Governor, apologetic as if Merle hadn’t been party to the conversation that had just transpired. He rubs the back of his neck, smile blithe and disarming. “If you have any further thoughts on my offer, don’t hesitate to say – I’ll be back at the same time tomorrow.” 

Merle’s eyes narrow. “I’m special enough to keep ya from all your important _reports_ and _debriefin’s_?” That makes the smile slide away, dissolving into a coldly analytic stare. It’s a helluva lot less pretty but at least doesn’t make Merle feel like he’s trying to read a mask, so he answers with a broad smile. “There, thas better. Why don’tcha tell me why you’re _really_ so desperate to get me on yer side?” 

The pause is impregnated with tension; Merle lets it wash over him without care, arms crossed so the stinging stump’s nestled in the crook of his elbow rather than crushed against his chest. The Governor lets the silence simmer. Then nods, decisive and final. “Very well. The truth isn’t especially exciting though – it is what it is. I’ve been telling you this place is _safe_ , but that’s a lie. At the rate we’re going, we won’t last the month.” Outside, the woman lifts a makeshift squeegee made of a hacked up tyre and a stick, and squeaks it noisily down the glass. Another hurries from the house next door and grabs her wrist, shaking her head in adamant command. _Too noisy_. The Governor continues unperturbed. “Our men are untrained and afraid, poor shots at best, awful at worst. They trust me to guide them in defending the town, but I can’t be everywhere at once. I certainly can’t protect this place while leading patrols in the field.” 

So that’s it. Merle grins. “You wanna lieutenant.” 

“And you’re the only one here with military training.” 

“Dishonourable discharge,” says Merle, with modesty. 

“Nevertheless, the best we have.” Aw. Ain’t that cute – buttering him up by comparison with a civvie population stuffed into five penned-off streets, half of which don’t know the unfriendly end of a gun from their own kneecaps. Merle’s almost swooning. “For now though, you need to rest. Perhaps once we’ve had the prosthetic fitted, we can talk about what your responsibilities would be and what privileges they would entail – hypothetically, of course.” 

_Privileges_. This sly greaseball knows what he’s doing – and if it weren’t for Daryl, Merle’d be falling for it like a wingless albatross. Taking orders is one thing; giving them quite another. It’s not often someone’s so desperate that they put Merle in a position of authority, so the thought of being able to hurl abuse at whatever gormless turds he’s put in charge of without reprimand is tantalizing. He’s not quick enough to keep his interest from flashing across his face, but manages a steady voice for his reply: “Sure. Seeya tomorrow.” 

*** 

Once the Governor’s gone Merle can’t keep himself standing any longer, not even by willpower. He leaves the bright rectangle of the window and staggers along, using the wall as a crutch, to deposit himself heavily on the bed. His head hits pillow with a soft and unsatisfying thump. Merle shuts his eyes to block the noonday glare glancing off the metal table in the corner of his room, and wonders whether he’ll be able to make it back to his feet when all these liquids they’re pumping him full of make their inevitable way through his kidneys, or if he’ll just piss the bed. Right now, the latter’s actually tempting. 

His hand hurts. 

His hand ain’t there no more, but it still hurts. 

And his head hurts too, because this should be an easy decision, dammit. If a pudgy prick like Miltie’s made it thus far, then that cinches matters; Merle’s a hundred percent certain that Daryl’s out there, and equally as sure that he oughta go find him. But he’s not altogether convinced that the Governor’s offer is garbage.

Yeah, yeah. Merle and Daryl ain’t the most sociable. They’re more at home in the woods than enclosed within four walls – but unless they wanna go full hermit, they’ll need a place to return to, every now and again. A stable base. Other faces, some conversation – if only so they don’t wind up killing each other out of sheer frustration. 

Woodbury could be that. 

Merle and Daryl could run as many of these ‘patrols’ as they liked. Stay out the way of putzy liberal idealists who aren’t willing to bend to Merle’s methods. Stop themselves from going soft or being _tamed_ by all them pretty smiling dames and their spoilt brats, who’ve never known beatings or foraged for their dinner. But then, at the end of the day, they could lope back to Woodbury. Daryl could be round _people_ , like he needed (but refused to be unless Merle was providing a familiar fount of insults and jibes at anyone who came within earshot). And perhaps – just _perhaps_ – he’d smile again. 

It’s a nice thought. Merle doesn’t entertain many of those. 

However, despite multiple allegations to the contrary, Merle also ain’t an idiot. He’s well aware that this cutesie utopia’s a fantasy. Regardless of whether he’s batting for them or running solo, Woodbury’s walls are gonna buckle and the Governor’s citadel will come tumbling down. Merle plans to be far, far away when that happens: him and his brother both. 

But in the meantime… Why shouldn’t they enjoy it, while it lasts? 

The hours come and go. Merle stands up to piss, trekking to the end of his IV-leash to noisily fill a Tupperware container that’s either been left on the table for that purpose or will have one hell of a dismayed owner when they return to collect it. When he staggers to the window the Negro dame’s vanished, as have the tumbling gaggle of kids from the schoolyard. Merle watches them in their classroom, handling glossy textbooks with a care that speaks of having no batch to restock with should these get dog-eared. He wonders what oaths he’ll have to swear to the Governor in exchange for some goddam entertainment. 

*** 

As it turns out, none. “Certainly,” says the Governor, smile artfully constructed as ever. “I’ve had more time for reading lately –“ _What, since the world ended? Ain’t that convenient for ya._ “-And I’ve found myself to be a fan of Foucault. So, any particular titles? Authors? Genres?” 

Merle’s mouth works soundlessly a moment. He hasn’t actually thought this far ahead, and he’s far from a literary scholar. “Uh. The Bible?” 

At that, the Governor perks like a hungry dog before a gristle-laden bone. “Are you a religious man? There’s an ordained priest who holds service every Sunday – the building we use for schooling is the old church, so it’s empty weekends. Congregation’s small but friendly. You’re more than welcome to join it –“ 

Merle cuts him off. “No! Fuck no.” The thought of _him_ sitting in a pew is too absurd for contemplation. Why’d he say the Bible, anyway? All that ‘meek and mild’ shtick ain’t his thing – he’ll turn the other cheek only when the other guy’s past caring. Same with every other adage in the book – fuck _religion_ , that’s his theory. In fact, fuck who you like; take that _man shalt not lie with man_ bullshit and choke on it like a nice fat cock. 

…He ain’t reading no goddam ‘ _fuck-ooh_ ’ though. “How’s about ya just ask the librarian for whatever he recommends.” 

“She,” corrects the Governor. He seems disappointed about the church – strange as he ain’t the God Squaddie type, but he’s probably nudging Merle to put down roots in the community. Bastard’ll have him _married_ next. Merle shudders, while the Governor makes for the door. “I’ll bring you to meet her. For now, seeing as you’re on your feet –“ (he’s wise enough not to mention Miltie’s prescribed week of bedrest) “-Would you like to accompany me on a quick survey of our defences? I’m sure you’d like to know where you’ll be stationed.” 

Merle, who’d all but jumped to his feet at the prospect of walkies – anywhere but the insides of this goddam room; whitewashed walls are driving him crazy – slowly sits on the bed once more, torn between incredulous and amused. “Yer talkin’ like I’ve already made up my mind.” 

“Am I? Oh.” If Merle hadn’t been fooled by Daryl’s beguiling innocence when he came home to find the boy dawdling around their smashed-in front window, deflated football flopping over a stalagmite of glass, he sure ain’t gonna be taken in by the Governor’s perplexed blink. “Sorry. I’m letting my hopes get ahead of me. All of my promises about a peaceable departure hold true – Woodbury doesn’t keep prisoners, Merle.” 

Yeah. Because _that_ makes him feel better. 

Merle fingers the bandages swaddling his stump. They’re a lil’ sticky, a lil’ smelly; in need of a change – but he ain’t gonna beg for fresh ones, and he certainly won’t go pleading for the Governor to help him wrap the wound and act as his missing hand. He thinks of the group he and his brother planned on robbing. Of the cop who’d barged in on his sniper show, acting like he was nuking nurseries rather than popping geeks in the brain. Of that big nigger who’d punched him, handcuffed him, then dropped the fucking key down the drain like the goddam fumbling ape he was. 

Yeah. He’s the one Merle’ll make pay most of all, if Daryl hasn’t slaughtered every piece of deadweight in that camp by the time he arrives… 

…Okay, maybe not. Being honest with anyone is a rare occurrence, least of all himself. But try as he might, Merle finds it impossible to convince himself that Daryl would take that final step. Killing zombies is one thing; killing living people quite another. While Merle’s clocked experience in the army – enjoyed it, even – there are some deeds which sit uncomfortably when pushed into proximity with his baby brother. Heaven knows _why_. 

But the Governor’s waiting for an answer. 

If worst comes to worst, and the insinuation his brain imposes over the Governor’s carefree words – _we don’t keep prisoners here, Merle_ – turns out to be more than gut feeling, Merle’ll need to know these walls well enough to climb ‘em one-handed. That settles it. He tips the Governor a stiff nod, and accepts the hand that hauls him to his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This chapter was written in a rush, but somehow the pacing manages to be glacial. Apologies. Things will speed up in the next instalment!**
> 
> **Also, the people (person) have (has) spoken! (Thank you to IdrissPukka!)**
> 
> **T-Dog/Merle it shall be. ;)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which T-Dog makes his not-so-grand entrance.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **C.N. - racism, use of the n-word, you know the drill.**

All in all, Merle’s impressed. Grudgingly. Very grudgingly. For a settlement of civvies and wetnoses, they’ve done mighty well for themselves.

He rests a hand on the wall. It’s made from offroader tyres and corrugated shed-roof metal, held together with wire, duct-tape, and hope. He’s not using it for stability because his legs’re still wobbly; oh no, he’s doing it to test its strength, that’s all. When he finds it can take his weight without a creak, he’s satisfied. Woodbury’ll stay tight until he’s fit enough to make a run for it. He hopes. If it doesn’t… Well, finding Daryl will be the least of his worries.

“So?” says the Governor, encompassing his kingdom with outspread arms. Merle shuffles so he ain’t included in the gesture. “What do you think?”

Digging his pinky into his ear, Merle shrugs and examines the finds beneath his nail. “Room for improvement. But not shit.”

He receives a chuckle in return. “High praise, I’m sure. Now, to the library – if you can make it that far, of course?”

It’s phrased as a question. It might well _be_ a question. But like hell is Merle going to take it as one, not when he can interpret it as a challenge. “After you, Governor.” He substitutes ‘Governor’ for ‘beanpole’ in the privacy of his own mind. Then tacks on ‘tightass’ as an afterthought, and not just because he’s sauntering (read: staggering) behind him.

***

People stare. That’s nothing new. But Merle’s used to those stares being followed by whispers and the occasional crossing of oneself. This _niceness_ is entirely unprecedented. It’s understandable, on a level of pure logic. Strangers ain’t usual fare round these parts – at least, not ones that aren’t moaning and dripping with their own maggoty gore. But some of the civilians nod, or wave, as if they’ve ever cooked him a meal or fellaciated his piece! It’s disquieting, to say the least.

Merle satisfies himself that most of their admiration’s aimed at the Governor. The man paces through his flock like a shepherd among lambs. When they pass the church/school (Merle twisting over one shoulder to glare at the lil’ box he’s been cooped in, the unmade bed just visible in the corner of the window) he’s half-surprised to note that the effigy dangling from the cross ain’t in the Governor’s image. As Merle's walking in the man’s shadow, a portion of the townspeople's attention gets siphoned to him, and more than one head is tipped respectfully in his direction. It doesn’t reassure him in the slightest.

Should Merle try anything he won’t find himself any friends. This is loyalty worse than that you find in the army – it’s a goddam _community_. Mighty rare, after the apocalypse. It’s ironic that Merle should be the lucky sod they saved; if it weren’t for the sake of having someone to bounce insults off or forcing his brother to socialize, he’d have been avoiding all of civilized society since he dropped high school. He amuses himself with thinking up ways of describing everyone who dares look his way, hoping to scare them off with his glower. He categorizes them all in his head – the wart-chinned spic bird who’d been a bag lady in a previous life, the wet-eared Mormon who probably hid high heels in his closet, the yankee cunt with the pencil skirt that’d have her toppling in two steps if she ever had to run from a hoard.

Useless, useless, useless. Cannon fodder, the lot of ‘em.

Distance firmly established, Merle sets his sneer and forces his spine straight, clamping any pain from the stump or tiredness from his unused legs deep down where it belongs, under a hefty ladleful of willpower. By the time the Governor pauses at the peeling whitewashed porch of a three story house, crammed between an old grocery and a bar that has (unfortunately) been converted to emergency accommodation, Merle’s gait could almost be called a swagger.

“Here we are,” says the Governor. Merle hoiks one corner of his lip, tipping chin to sky so he can scan the building roof to root and come to an informed verdict –

“This ain’t no library.”

“Why do you say that?”

“There.” Merle points. Two flaps of cloth billow behind a glass pane, periwinkle with floral print. “Curtains. Someone’s livin’ there.”

The Governor’s smile doesn’t waver. “Unfortunately, our lack of space means that we must fit people wherever possible. This house belongs to the librarian and the schoolteacher.”

“Oh yeah. So, they shacking up? Bit of post-dead rising nookie? Can’t blame ‘em: y’know what they say about the end of the world…”

“No,” says the Governor, sounding amused and a little exasperated, as a woman calls “Can you get that, Theodore?” from somewhere within the house and heavy footsteps thunder obediently down the stairs. “For a start, Wendy is old enough to be _your_ mother.”

Merle doesn’t like the way he puts emphasis on that word. Bristling, he puffs up in his loaned shirt, jabbing a finger into the Governor’s chest. “Hey, don’tchu go makin’ no age jabs; you ain’t no spring chicken neither –“

He doesn’t fit in another word. Nor does the Governor have chance to retaliate – although his eyes thin at the contact and a whiplash of icy hostility pulses across his face like a glacier on fast-forward. Because at that moment, T-Dog yanks open the door, clad in jeans and a t-shirt and looking all kinds of spry but for the new scar slashed into his forearm.

“Sorry, sorry, forgot to unlock this morning – still gettin’ used t’the nine-to-five, y’know? Oh, hey Gov –“

That scar’s not _nearly_ big enough to compensate Merle’s own.

For a second, they stare at one another. Then, before the Governor can fit the puzzle pieces together and state the obvious – “You _know_ each other?” – Merle punches T-Dog in the teeth.

***

It’s a testimony to how long he’s been out of the game that T-Dog and Governor manage to take him down. They tag-team him, T-Dog in front and Governor behind, boxing him into the doorway – Merle had moved forwards to throw his hook, _stupid_ ; now there ain’t enough space to swing nor kick. One grabs his good hand, the other his bad stump.

T-Dog evidently doesn’t realize what he’s holding, because he _squeezes_. Merle’s knees buckle. He drags the two of them down with him, blood bubbling from T-Dog's busted lip while more inundates Merle’s bandage. They spill into Miss Librarian’s clean-dusted hallway, Merle bellowing the entire way.

“Fuckin’ _asshole_ , you pussy nigger _bitch_ –“

Somewhere along the line, T-Dog squeezes again. Merle’s not sure which insult chewed his wick the most, but then again he’s too busy shouting and trying to nut T-Dog in his stupid brown nose to care. He makes a hash job of it – would be ashamed of himself any other time. But T-Dog follows the line of the quiver, along muscles that’ve tensed to cramping across Merle’s shoulder and down side.

When his eyes alight on the blood-soaked bandage that ends his arm a solid seven inches too short… Well. If he’d been a white man, Merle woulda said that the color drained right outta his face.

Next instant he’s released. He’s not sure if that hurts more. The nerve endings scream as raw skin splices from bandage, after being ground together under the pressure of T-Dog’s hand. “Holy shit,” Merle hears, percolating the certainty that he’s immersed the right half of his body in burning oil. “Dixon. You’re alive.”

Behind them, the Governor pushes to his feet. He’s on guard, gaze flicking from one to another.  It’s impossible to tell whether he’s scouting for hints of backstory or just ensuring Merle doesn’t lunge again the moment he’s recovered.

“No shit,” grits Merle, and does so.

T-Dog rears back. He doesn’t cower, but crawls belly-up in a rapid reverse crabwalk, as the Governor catches Merle under the armpits and hauls him upright, kicking and ferocious. “Stop,” he orders. It’s a voice Merle’s heard a thousand times before, from dad, drill sergeant, and Officer Friendly. It don’t matter the words; what’s important is the way it’s said. Laced with the absolute and unrelenting certainty that they will be obeyed.

Merle, red-faced and puffing, gasps out a spitty laugh. As if.

He whacks his boot-heel on the Governor’s shin. It’s effective – in his peripherals, his face goes waxy with pain and the grip loosens enough for Merle to shrug out from it. He’s on the offensive immediately. Storming forwards, Merle towers over T-Dog and takes a moment to bask in the perfection of the moment – the victory that’s rightfully his. He looks at his face long and hard, wanting to ingrain these last moments into his memory to mull over in the harsh nights to come.

Man’s eyes ain’t so much saucers as mill wheels. He’s practically gibbering, right hand palm-out in futile placation – as if the reminder of what Merle's lost is gonna make him merciful. And yet somehow, Merle’s not reading any fear. Only shock – intense shock, and perhaps a little relief.

“You’re… You’re _alive?_ ” T-Dog splutters. Stupid question. Merle's about to reply with a drawn-out “ _Duh_ ” when T-Dog elaborates. “How are you alive? We came back for you, man – I came back! Me, your brother, Rick and Glenn, we came back for you! We fuckin’ fought our way up to that rooftop; you gotta believe me! I… I thought I’d killed you. And when we got there…” The words give way to a dry-tongued croak. They return again just as swiftly, T-Dog recovering himself. He hovers in a liminal space between horror and glee. “Fuck, man! Ya got out! You’re _alive!_ ”

They went back?

That’s the only part of his soliloquy that stops Merle kicking T-Dog’s throat in there and then. By the time he’s processed this new evidence and found it inadmissible – as if returning to rescue his sorry hide in any way redeems the fucker who’d left it there to roast in the first place – it’s too late to act on it. At that moment, as he teeters on the brink of slamming his boot into T-Dog’s windpipe, there’s the echo of a dry-cranked flush. An old woman totters from the upstairs bathroom. “Theodore?” she calls. Her ancient voice warbles like a baby sparrow. “What’s going on? Who is it?”

Merle cocks his head. The tension breaks. T-Dog shouts a reply that’s been repeated so much that it borders instinctual: “Wendy, y’know you ain’t supposed to flush; there ain’t nothing in the cistern! Why don’tcha use the compost bogs like the rest of us?” That, in combination with the old bird’s trilling (“Oh Theodore, I forgot! Old brain ain’t what it used to be…”) means the situation’s surreal enough to keep Merle distracted as the image before him coalesces.

T-Dog.

The negro shitstain Merle’s wished death on more than any other.

Here.

Alive – like a cosmic spitball in the face.

He’s exactly as Merle remembers; stocky and brawny and incorrigibly brown. Those hands that Merle’s seen shove a knife through a walker’s eye socket (and drop a key into a drain, never to be seen again) now hook for balance around the banister as he levers himself off the stairs. Stairs which belong to a bird who must be pushing ninety, who somehow ain’t a moaning, hungry geek. They’re doing jolly fine by the look of ‘em. All cosy and domestic; proper nice lil’ family. They’re here, and Daryl’s not. They’re here, they’re alive and happy, and in that moment Merle knows there’s no such thing as _justice_ in this gut-splattered, godforsaken world.

His thoughts provide ample time for the Governor to recover. Fingers clamp around Merle’s elbow. The proximity to his stump is far enough not to smart but close enough to warn, and for once in his life, Merle’s wise enough to listen. But that doesn’t mean he forgives. Nostrils flared with anger, blood simmering behind his temples, his glare doesn’t stray from T-Dog as his lone fist relaxes. Its twin, invisible to all but him, remains clenched. It’s slavering for T-Dog’s blood. As soon as the Governor’s back turns, Merle will sate it.

For now though? Best play it cool. Merle slumps his shoulders. Plasters on an easy grin. “Don’tchu worry yourself, darlin’!” he calls up the stairs. “S’just an old friend!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **T-Dog was separated from the group at the same time as Andrea. Or rather, when Lori said she'd leave him alone if he didn't go back and help look for Rick & Co, T-Dog took them up on the offer and went his merry way - to be picked up by the Governor's men on a patrol. You'll get the whole story later!**
> 
>  
> 
> **Don't worry about Merle's awful racism; he'll learn the error of his ways.**
> 
>  
> 
> **Please comment!**
> 
>  
> 
> ****
> 
>  
> 
> ****


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Merle practices self-defenestration and T-Dog teaches.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Okay, so this is (hopefully) the last chapter that will feature racist slurs... Or at least, a ridiculous amount of them. There's gotta be a reason for Merle toning down his language between seasons 1 and 3, right??**

He’s surprised the Governor doesn’t demand the whole story the instant they’re alone. However, what little time they’ve spent together has taught him that the fastest way to get Merle to clam up is to order him to talk.

Merle brims with furious energy as they leave the makeshift library-house, as bookless as when they arrived. Blood oozes from the stump in a treacle-thick burgundy drizzle. The Governor glances at it, and then up to the ticking muscle in Merle’s jaw. “You need to have that changed,” he says, nodding to the bandage. “I’ll have Mamet fix you up, once we get back to your room.”

His room. Of course. He’s gonna be shepherded back there, like a disgraced pet, because the Governor ain’t gonna let him roam wild and free now he knows Merle has it out for one of his own. And – thinking about it – how even did T-Dog get to _be_ one of the Governor’s own? Weren’t he and Officer Friendly thick as thieves? Certainly hadn’t taken them two seconds to rally against him, back in the glory days where the world was shimmery with meth and he had two hands to punch folks with. Perhaps T-Dog got himself ousted? Badmouthed the Sheriff’s girl, stole his kill, found himself on the wrong side of that stern and serious brand of crazy? Or else T-Dog was the one who lashed out and Officer Friendly’s belly-down in a ditch somewhere far away from here, food for any geek who fancies a nibble.

Imagining the stuck-up cop’s pretty face being pounded to raw hamburger makes Merle crack a smile. Just what the a-hole deserves.

When the Governor drops him off at his bedside – attempting to assist him up the stairs earns him an elbow in the side that Merle doesn’t bother to pass off as accidental – Merle takes no time in bouncing onto it, boots and all, glaring at the Governor as if daring him to comment. “So, is this when I get the lecture?”

“What lecture?”

“Y’know – the _don’t you go startin’ fights in my town_ one. ‘Cause so long as I’m within the same mile as that crazy nigger, ya can guarantee there’s gonna be trouble, and plenty of it.” He curls his lip at the Governor’s shin: man’s favoring the other leg, and the imprint of Merle’s boot treads undoubtedly still smarts under the thick cargo pants. “Heck, that oughta stop ya from wanting me on yer town wall, right? Bet you’ll be feeling that bruise tomorrow.”

“Actually,” says the Governor, resting his weight more equally, “watching you fight while running on empty has, if anything, made me all the more adamant that you are just the sort of man this place needs.” When Merle makes to spout off again, he interrupts – “I’ll say it as often as I need to. The choice to stay is yours. But while I would urge you to keep your distance from Theodore – and would remind you that regardless of how much of an asset your skillset might be to Woodbury, maintaining the peace comes first – in this world, as I’m sure you’ll agree, there’s more of a need for violence than in the last.” His smile is nostalgic: the look of a man who’s lost everything and rebuilt from scratch. But as usual, the emotion doesn’t reach his eyes.

Merle ain’t one to break a gaze; the way he interprets eye contact, it’s as much a pissing contest as everything else in life. But the Governor’s facsimiles of expressions rest at a level of uncanny not even the walker pandemic can broach. He finds himself glancing to one side with a shudder. “Whatever,” he dismisses. Sure, he’ll let the Governor think he’s willing to avoid T-Dog for the duration of however long this lasts, if only to keep the peace. Speaking of ‘T-Dog’… “And it ain’t _Theodore_. S’T-Dog. Or ‘ugly ass nigger’ – your choice.”

He can’t put his finger on it, but something shutters in the Governor’s face at that. “If you’re going to make an effort to be civil,” he says mildly, “then I’d thank you not to use that word in reference to our schoolteacher.”

 _That word._ Ugh. Merle rolls his eyes. More pansy liberals trying to censor him – fuck the whole lot of ‘em. As if shit like manners and niceties matter anymore. “Sure,” he gripes, collapsing backwards onto the bed and waving his stump at the ceiling as if dictating to a heavenly choir. “I’ll call ‘im _Honeybunch_ instead, if it’ll getcha off my ass.”

“That’s better, I suppose.” The Governor glances at his watch – Merle’s struck by the absurdity of keeping one anymore, and wonders where he gets the batteries. “I’m afraid I have other duties to attend to. I’ll send Milton up.”

“Yeah, yeah. You do that.” Merle rests his arm on his belly, wincing as the bandages rub, and yawns hard enough to eclipse the sound of the lock clicking shut after the Governor leaves. He entertains a coupla fantasies – nothing too serious: just hollowing out T-Dog’s burly gut and strewing intestines prettily across the Woodbury walls so he can lure in enough Walkers to expend his frustration on. But those plans won’t come into fruition. Not when the mid-afternoon sun is hot and soporific, and the sweat soaking down his shirt sleeve has mingled with the caked blood on his stump, washing it with salt.

Fucking T-Dog, opening his wound again. Sure, he’d sounded mighty pleased to see Merle alive for someone with a boot about to be introduced to their windpipe. But that was guilt talking, plain and simple. Merle’s seen what that can do to a man. Makes them talk all kindsa hoopla. It’d happened in the army, and he’d had as little patience for it then as he does now. No, what he and T-Dog need is a proper punch-up, _mano el mano,_ if the Governor ever wants ‘em to put this crap behind them and behave all friendly-like. Not this: the Woodbury equivalent of a restraining order.

When Mamet potters in, finding each creaky floorboard and wincing whenever his loafers squeak, Merle lays still and pretends to be asleep. He enjoys hearing the dipshit squirm as he dithers over whether or not to wake him. Once Miltie gets up the guts to shake his shoulder, Merle slams his eyes open before his hand can connect.

Miltie jumps like he’s had a cattle prod shoved where the sun don’t shine. The noise he makes is exquisite: castrated cat meets whoopee cushion. Merle sputters obnoxious laughter, loud and relentless, and gleefully pounds Milton between his shoulders, almost felling him into his lap. “Miltie, Miltie! Shoulda seen the look on yer face. You ain’t shit yer pants, have ya? See you wore the brown ones today – wise call.”

Milton’s chin wrinkles, and he pushes his glasses up his nose. “I, I am not _incontinent_ , Mr Dixon –“

“Fer the last time, s’Merle. Call me _Mister Dixon_ again and I’ll rip them specs off yer face and feed ‘em to ya.” The threat’s delivered with jovial insincerity, but Milton either ain’t the best at reading tone or he’s wise enough to never assume Merle’s joking. He balks, washing waxy, and cranes his upper body out of reach as he begins his delicate pick at the knotty bandage. After that, not even Merle has the strength for witticisms. He clutches the sheets, boots dragging the covers into terraced fold-mountains. “F-fuck…”

It hurts. And the smell… Ain’t as bad as a walker, not yet. It says how inexperienced Miltie is with this whole geek-infestation, that the wafts of a fresh and early infection makes him gag. Merle’d like to see him fish through walker-giblets. He’d probably lose lunch and bladder contents alike, for all his claims at muscle control.

“Geddon with it,” he croaks. Shoves his stump more adamantly under Milton’s nose, relishing the nauseated bulge in his eyes. Perhaps he pushes too far though, because Miltie’s fingers tremble where they lift the water bowl from his lap, and half of it slops onto the bed. Merle swears. “Dumb four-eyes! Watch whatcher doin’, would ya? Here…” Huffing, he rearranges himself cross-legged, Miltie perched on the chair in front of him. “You hold _that_ bit, pull it off now – no, not _slow,_ that’s worse, _fuck_. Just rip it. Quick, do it quick – oh _hell_. Not that quick. Fuck, fuck, _fuck me, that hurts_ …”

Miltie, holding the unwound pus-soaked strip, fidgets from asscheek to asscheek. “Are you alright?” he asks with ridiculous sincerity. Then he realizes what he’s got staining his fingers – a fair amount of yellow ooze, stinking like old roadkill – and manages to slide the bowl to where he won’t spill it when he drops the sticky wad on the floor and buries his head in his knees.

Merle cackles, digging his nails into his thigh to bypass the pain. “Think I oughta be askin’ you that, Miltie.” He hooks the bowl over and dunks his stump, hissing as the lukewarm liquid agitates all those newly disturbed nerve endings. He holds it in grim-faced until the agony goes from stomach-lurching to eye-twitching. “Okay, so next time we soak the bandages off, yeah?”

“Next time,” groans Milton queasily, hugging his thighs.

“Uh, yeah. You ain’t leavin’ me high and dry, Miltie. You’re my right hand man.”

Milton gulps. “Hilarious, I’m sure.” He has enough coherence to hand Merle the cloth, draped across the back of his chair. Merle coaxes dried blood and gunk off the wound, mopping in small circles until the water swirls red-brown. There ain’t no soap, but he figures whatever IV line he’d been wired to when he first came around contained enough juice to boost his immune system for the next year or so. If the walker virus becomes airborn he’ll have a couple extra months to relish the intelligent conversation, once everyone around him starts moaning.

Milton fishes out a small bottle of something unlabelled. “Herbal,” he mutters, when Merle turns it over in search of a name. “Our pharmaceuticals are low, but a couple of us have a rudimentary knowledge of medicine, and it’s easy enough to gather ingredients for a topical antibiotic. Uh. Can you get the cap off yourself…?”

Bastard dares sound pitying. Merle pointedly wrenches the stopper with his teeth and spits it to clatter against the bare metal bedframe.

His stump sops bloody water over his legs when he extracts it from its bath, spreading through the thin bedclothes like ink on tracing paper. Miltie pulls a face. Merle returns it with raised eyebrows and a scoff. Fuck knows why they insist on changing his sheets every time he gets ‘em grubby; Merle’s slept on far worse, and has been exposed to enough germs from a young age that he ain’t too worried about catching cooties. He allows Miltie to scoop a dollop of viscous green poultice and apply it. Shit smells like hippie hairgel, and Merle shakes his head before he can ponder whether he can smoke it; last thing he needs is a new addiction. When it’s plastered over the stump, it’s sore but in a good way: a healthy way, like teatree oil on split knuckles. Merle exalts in the pain. His groan is heartfelt, and the first prickles of feverish heat feel, illogically, as if they’ve already started to fade.

“There,” says Miltie, like a proud mama hen. Stomach recovered now that the rawness has been hidden, he tugs a new roll of bandages from the pocket in his pants and blows the lint off before starting the arduous rewinding process. Sterility’s a bit much to ask for, Merle supposes, but this is better than nothing. He lets Milton finish his binding without complaint (or at least, without much), nose scrunching at the odd compress of dressing against stump, and pats the completed product to make sure it’ll hold. It does. And while being so intimate with the evidence of his amputation hasn’t done any wonders for Merle’s brainpan – it’s eerie, having his thoughts inform him there oughta be an appendage where there’s nothing but air and bad memories – he’s relieved not to have to fret about losing the rest of the arm to gangrene.

“Awright,” he says, bumping the bowl towards Milton again, who pulls a predictable face at its grotty contents. “Off ya trot, Miltie. Scoot.”

“No thank you?” Milton mumbles. But when Merle thins his eyes at him, he pretends he said nothing at all.

***

After Miltie’s scampered away, Merle’s left with nothing to do but brood. His thoughts center, naturally, on the events of the last few days. He realizes that if the Governor’s already picked up T-Dog, that means his claim of wide-ranging patrols ain’t all guff; there’s a genuine chance for them to stumble across Daryl, or vice versa, while in the field. And that maybe, just possibly, helping fortify Woodbury might be beneficial in the long run.

It’s gruelling to admit that he’s being swayed. But Merle reminds himself that he ain’t doing this for _him_. He doesn’t give two tosses for civilization, or whatever shoddy replica the Governor’s established. It’s all about his baby brother. Once he’s found him, they can make their own way if they so choose. But until then it’s wiser to stay put, suck it up, and deal with the fact his fuckin’ arch-nemesis is teaching a gaggle of snot-nosed brats how to punt a football in the neighbouring garden.

Merle rolls and buries his face in the pillow. Then gives into frustration and pushes up, remembering at the last moment to use only his left hand to bear his weight – gonna have to start practising one-armed push ups – and marches to the window. It cranks open to forty-five degrees, wide enough for Merle to stick his head out and bawl:

“Oi, Mr Yo! Keep it down – you wanna bring a Horde down on our heads?”

T-Dog’s floored for a moment by the hypocrisy. Then rolls his eyes, sticks up his middle finger, and goes back to correcting the form of a dweeby ginger gal who would make a decent toothpick.

That’s… that’s practically a _dismissal_. Ain’t no one who dismisses Merle. Not when he doesn’t want them to. “Don’tchu ignore me!”

T-Dog continues to do just that. When the gal gets distracted, gaze flitting to the red-faced man shouting from the overlooking window, he gently puts a hand on her head to turn it to where he wants it. Merle kicks the wall in frustration. “You asshole ni –“

Recalling his conversation with the Governor, he manages to shut his mouth around half a slur – no mean feat where he’s concerned. That gets T-Dog’s attention. Fingers still carding the brat’s shiny curls, he tucks the patched, half-inflated football under one arm and squints into the sun so he can locate Merle’s silhouette. His blink is surprised and a little pleased. Like he thinks Merle’s _progressing_ , or some damn condescending shit. Merle longs to replace that toothy smile with a fist, but settles for leering and flipping the bird before slamming the window shut.

Fuck him.

Fuck the Governor.

Especially fuck the Governor, who’s apparently told Milton about his ruckus-causing escapade and ordered him to ensure Merle doesn’t sneak out. Because when Merle tries the handle, fully intending to march down there and insert the football into the smallest bodily orifice T-Dog owns, it jerks half an inch before clamping on the lock.

Shit.

If he had both hands and a paperclip, he could jig the damn thing. If he hadn’t determined five minutes ago that Woodbury was as good a place as any to call home while he tracked his wayward brother, he’d have planted a boot besides it and kicked the door off its hinges. However, he doubts the Governor’ll take kindly to mindless property destruction. He’d build a swank new Woodbury Slammer in Merle’s honour. So, if neither option’s viable, Merle’s gonna have to think further afield…

Merle gives the handle a last hopeful test. When it proves futile, he scrubs his palm over his face, grazing stubble and dried sweat, and cusses the Governor seven ways to hell as he heads once more for the window.

***

T-Dog thinks of himself as a well-adjusted guy.

To put that into perspective: T-Dog thinks he’s well-adjusted for someone who survived the rise of the Walkers, escaped Atlanta, hid from a horde under a car (and got his arm slashed open into the bargain), helped fish a bloated geek out of a well (which admittedly hadn’t gone according to plan), and whiled away his time on a peaceful countryside farm before everything went to shit and he’d scarpered into the night, Lori and Beth choosing certain death and their families over a chance of freedom.

Screw that. T-Dog doesn’t have no family, not anymore.

He’d liked the Atlanta group, yeah. But it was in the sort of way you _had_ to like the people you were thrown together with after the world went to pot, so they didn’t lynch you or vice versa. Some he’d liked more than others. As the Token Minorities – a self-given nickname rarely shared with the main group, who’d only get all uppity in their attempts to deny it – he and Glenn always had each other’s back. Abandoning him is the one thing T-Dog regrets, more still than Beth or Rick or Carl. The thought of the skinny kid sprinting around the burning barn, dodging walkers and hunting for survivors, maybe even calling T-Dog’s name… Well, that haunted him long after the fall of Hershel’s farm. No doubt it will for many years still.

In fact, his reaction to Glenn’s demise affected him in much the same way as the fate of another man. One Daryl never truly forgave him for, no matter what he claimed. A man whose supposed death T-Dog had, however inadvertently, brought about…

 _Hey,_ thinks T-Dog, watching Merle lever his way out the window and start the swear-studded, one-handed clamber for the ground. _At least I can wipe one name off my conscience._

He wonders whether watching Merle fall and break his neck would keep him up at night in the same way. Just in case, he knocks Lucy gently on the shoulder and thumbs for her to go stand with the rest of their shoddy class on the outskirts of the garden-come-playground, before crossing to loiter under Merle’s kicking feet. “Lil help?” he offers.

Merle, face bright red and panting as he clings to the sill by his fingertips, tells him what he thinks of his mother. 

“Right,” T-Dog says. Claps his hands, dusting them one off the other as if washing himself free of responsibility. Turning his back, he ushers his kids indoors to begin the afternoon’s lessons, not sparing another look for the angry redneck swinging from the Governor’s second story window. There’s another inventive volley of cusses. T-Dog shuts the door on them, smirking as the volume goes from vitriolic, to muffled behind double-glazed glass. Then flinches at the following scrabble and thump.

“Aw _hell_.” Whatever he might think of the man, it doesn’t stop him from ripping the door open once more with a “Stay put!” to his students, and dashing across the unmown lawn to help a dazed Dixon to his feet.

Merle smacks his hand away. T-Dog’s glad to see the bandage over his stump’s been changed, although the sight of it still makes his stomach shiver. Not as much as the glare that’s levelled of him, as Merle scoots around on his ass, opting against getting up in favour of lounging against the wall and making the most of T-Dog’s broad shoulders to shade him from the blazing sun. “I ain’t supposed to be talkin’ to you,” is the first thing he says.

T-Dog feels the prickle of ten juvenile stares from the old church window. He shifts his weight to block them, letting a ray of brilliant white slash Merle’s face in the process. He cringes away from it, leering at T-Dog as if his baring of him to the sun is a personal offence – and T-Dog, remembering how hot it had been on that roof, how he’d wobbled and staggered from heat-rush and then tied Merle there for heaven knew how many hours before the poor sod’d sawn his own hand off to escape, supposes it just might be.

“Why’d you climb out the window then, genius?” he asks to distract himself. Crosses his arms, striving to look bored and unsympathetic, like he doesn’t give a shit. Merle wriggles further into his shadow, but despite that looking T-Dog in the eye means facing the sun behind him, pins him with a fierce stare.

“Because,” he says, in a slow and dangerous voice that just _begs_ T-Dog to laugh at him, “I ain’t asked about my brother yet. Where is he?”

Oh.

Oh _shit_. Last time T-Dog saw Daryl Dixon, he was notching an arrow as he faced the approaching horde, clasping the healing hole in his side with mouth a white pinched line. He tells Merle that and no way is he coming out of this without a shiner and another strike besides his name – and that’s the best case scenario. Worst case sees him in a bodybag.

Ever since discovering Merle at Woodbury, T-Dog’s been hoping that whatever sentiment roped the brothers together, it’s unrequited – unique to Daryl and Daryl alone. Certainly, there’s a world of difference separating them. Where Daryl’s somber and quiet, Merle’s loud and brash and loopy, with or without his meth. All they share is their build and their fondness for the woods. Daryl’s soft-spokenness, his loyalty, and his dedication to Sophia – all prove that he’s cut from different cloth to his brother. Not to mention his flinching from human touch. T-Dog only saw his scars briefly, but can’t help but suspect Merle as the perpetrator – and now the group’s most likely dead (and Daryl with them) that knowledge is his burden alone to bear.

“I dunno,” he says, praying that doesn’t wreak violent retaliation. He’s lucky. The urge to attack blazes and snuffs in quick succession. Merle amends his casual position to a crouch, relaxed but ready to spring should T-Dog say an unfavourable word.

“You dunno.” The fury in his voice seems more directed at the universe than him in particular, but as T-Dog’s the nearest outlook, he finds himself facing a potent brew nevertheless. “The fuck d’you mean, _you dunno?_ Where’d you see him last?”

“A farm,” says T-Dog. He breathes an internal sigh of relief when Merle nods, urging him on. “About twenty, thirty miles west of here, I reckon.”

“As if a city slick’d know…”

“You wanna hear me out or not?” Merle pushes air out of his nose and scowls, but lets his silence speak for itself. “Right.” T-Dog clears his throat. Now for the hard part. “It’s. Uh. There ain’t much left of it. There was a horde. Biggest I ever seen. And a fire. And… and…” Merle’s face gets progressively purpler as T-Dog speaks. That’s not good. Less good is that they’re in public, in the middle of the day, and T-Dog’s class is plastered to the window… And dammit but this is the first place approaching _safe_ he’s found. He won’t let an angry Dixon ruin it for him. “Don’t go off on one,” he growls, looming to show Merle he’s not afraid. “If you get us kicked out, we’re both gonners.”

Merle’s smile is forcibly placid. It doesn’t take a genius to tell that it’s buckling under a truckload of wrath, and that that truckload’ll plow careening into T-Dog if he drags this out. “Is my brother alive, Mr Yo? Thas all I’m askin’ ya.”

Lying will only earn him grief at a later date. T-Dog settles on the closest approximation of the truth he dares – “I don’t know that either.”

“Dunno very much, do ya?” Yet surprisingly, Merle relaxes. He leans his head on the sun-baked bricks, lazy smile growing as his posture goes from aggressive to indolent in a heartbeat. “Course not, thick-skulled ni – uh, _negro_ , like you.” T-Dog doesn’t bother telling him that _thick-skulled negro_ is no less racist; it’d be like flinging water at a raincoat. But he does raise one eyebrow, guard undropped and ready to defend should Merle fling aside his languidness and bite out his throat.

“And that’s… all?”

“Yup. Interrogation over. Y’all can fuck off now.” Merle shoos him with the stump, which is actually fairly effective given that T-Dog’s throat closes every time he’s forced to acknowledge it. As tempting as it is to do as he’s bid and pray he avoids Merle until the noisy jackass is allocated his place on the walls, T-Dog doesn’t trust the situation enough to turn his back. Being eviscerated from behind isn’t a noble way to die.

“But… your brother? Daryl? Aren’t you… I dunno, pissed at me for not saving his ass, or something?”

Merle smirks, eyes hooded and canine crimping his underlip. The expression’s baiting and conspiratorial, all at once. “You don’t know him like I do. Daryl might act a pussy every now an’ then, but he’s a Dixon where it matters. If ya didn’t see him go down, he ain’t dead. Simple as that.”

…T-Dog might’ve been mistaken about the one-sided nature of the brothers’ relationship. Apparently, Merle’s even firmer in his denial of Daryl’s mortality than vice versa. “I’ll bet you were the one that taught him to be so tough,” he can’t help but add, although his common sense begs him to quit while he’s ahead. Indeed, he regrets asking immediately – not because Merle’s hackles raise at the insinuation he’s the one who tanned Daryl’s back, but because of the _pride_ in his voice when he answers.

“Course I was! Boy ain’t had nobody but me. I made him the way he is, and what he is is a tough sonnuvabitch!” And he laughs, low and mocking, a hyena-snicker that lifts the hairs on T-Dog’s nape.

It’s hard to foster any hopes that Merle Dixon might be on a path for redemption after that. T-Dog lets his disgust be read openly. “I hope you never find him,” he spits. “For his sake.” Then turns in contempt, and stomps away before Merle can retaliate. So he thinks beating on his brother is funny? Bastard’s no better than Carol’s Ed – another abusive scumbag who doesn’t deserve sympathy or grief.

“Mr Douglas?” whispers Lucy, when he storms into the classroom, slamming the door hard enough to have the old chalkboard rattle where it’s propped against the wall. “Are you okay?”

“M’good,” T-Dog says. Digs his thumbs into his closed eyes until he feels ready to smile again, and puts on a bright face to continue their class. “Alright guys. Now, remember last week we were goin’ through our times tables? Right – well, let’s start from the beginning. If you’re under seven, you can do twos, fives and tens. Under elevens do threes, fours, and nines, and if you’re older than that… well, you lucky buggers get to suffer through sixes, sevens and eights! Good luck!”

He engrosses himself in the lesson – rudimentary math; not his specialty but he’s the only bloke in town with any teaching experience, given that he’d coached football for extra cash between seasons. And he doesn’t look once over his shoulder to watch Merle swallow his shock and stand, brimming with anger and confusion. He makes to follow him into the classroom – before groaning, throwing up hand-and-stump, and stalking away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I really like these dorks. If you're reading this, please tell me what you think so far!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which the Governor gives one simple order...**

“You aren’t well enough,” says the Governor, not glancing from the files he’s leafing through. Merle recognizes Miltie’s crammed-in scrawl, and wonders what’s so important that it needs to be immortalized on paper rather than conveyed via word of mouth. Then remembers he has better avenues to waste his time on than unravelling the mystery of the Governor’s paperwork, and leans over the table so he can breathe in the poncey bastard’s face and force him to make eye contact.

“P’raps you didn’t hear me. I _said_ , T-Dog told me where he saw my brother last. I’m goin’. You can give me a car, or I’ll walk.”

With a put-upon sigh, the Governor taps the papers on the desk until their edges form a horizontal line, and slots them out of sight in a lockable drawer. “I’m not telling you you can’t go. I’m telling you that you’re still recovering, and that you won’t be much use to anyone, your brother included, if you’re overcome by a group of walkers because you can’t run more than one hundred feet without getting out of breath.”

Merle’s ears heat up. His palm slams an inch before the Governor’s folded hands, the smack of skin on wood echoing through the bright and breezy office. “Fuck you; don’t you be tellin’ me my limits –“

“And of course,” the Governor continues, as if he hasn’t heard, “we questioned T-Dog when he first arrived. When we heard there might be survivors at this farm, we headed out right away – but there was nothing but ash.”

All moisture leaches from Merle’s mouth. “Bodies?” he croaks. Registering the change in tone, the Governor sighs and briefly presses one of his pale, long-fingered hands atop Merle’s own. He removes it before Merle has the chance to process the proffered comfort and jostle him off.

“Only walkers, and what looked to be farm workers. There’s still hope.” Disorientated by the unexpected contact and the revelation, Merle lingers over the desk a moment longer than intended before getting a hold of himself and lurching away.

“So if there’s hope,” he begins hotly, pacing from one side of the room to the other, “Why the fuck are ya tryin’ to keep me here? I know these woods – all I need’s a start, and I’ll hunt him down –“

But the Governor shakes his head. “The farm’s burnt out and the trail’s gone cold. Be patient, Merle. Just a while longer. _Please_.” Ain’t often he hears that word. Governor might as well be speaking a foreign language. Merle sneers.

“I’m going,” he repeats. The Governor scrapes out his chair and stands, assessing him from the higher level. Merle juts his lower jaw, glare steely and mutinous. And the Governor nods.

“Take a car. And someone who knows the way.” He catches Merle’s wrist when he turns to leave. “Merle. Not Theodore.”

Snorting, Merle wrenches free and rolls his eyes so hard his vision aches. “Duh,” he says.

***

Five minutes later sees him pounding on the library door. “Mr Yo! I know yer in there – quit hidin’!”

T-Dog, freed for the weekend and planning his lessons for Monday – he needs a goddam assistant; he’s only coached football before and doesn’t exactly have the patience of a saint when it comes to spelling, punctuation and grammar – cradles his forehead and sighs. If he doesn’t deal with this, crazy bastard’ll swarm the drainpipe. Probably wrench it off the wall and concuss himself into the bargain.

“I’ll get it!” calls Wendy from the kitchen. Oh no. He’s not letting her within a mile of Merle Goddam Dixon – she suffers palpitations whenever he says ‘hell’ around the house. Groaning, T-Dog pushes to stand. The textbook he’s been leafing through uncomprehendingly for the past half hour thuds to the floor, and T-Dog prods his head out the window, Wendy’s hand-stitched curtains flapping in his face.

“Keep it down would ya, Dixon? Some of us’re tryin’ to work.”

Merle steps away from the abused knocker, shielding his eyes with the stump. He grins at T-Dog with a glee that’s nine parts dangerous to one demented. “Getcher ass down here and I’ll shut my mouth for the rest of the day,” he promises. T-Dog sincerely doubts that. But optimism never hurts.

“Gimme a minute.” He slams the window with more force than necessary, the old panes rattling in their frames. Takes a deep breath. Calms himself. Loops the tassels around the curtains, pinning them so that Wendy’ll have an easier time of it when she cleans – he offered, but she’ll just do it again anyway and claim she forgot. It’s easier for the both of them to let her get on with it.

That’s enough procrastination. Whatever his thoughts on the subject of Merle Dixon; brother-beating, foul-mouthed, racist sexist pig; he’ll be doing the neighborhood a favour if he stops him causing hullaballoo at this time of morning, when the Wall Watch is thinnest.

Tugging on the ratty old trainers he’s been in since leaving Atlanta – Governor had laden him with supplies: fresh changes of shirts, pants, socks and underwear, for which T-Dog had been grateful, but these are the shoes he won his last game in and they’re coming wherever he does – T-Dog grabs a jacket and heads for the stairs. “Goin’ out for a bit,” he informs Wendy. For a while, actually. He’s gonna haul Merle as far away from this house as Woodbury extends – which admittedly, isn’t far at all – and tell him to quit bothering him, once and for all. With fists if necessary. Wendy treats him to a wrinkly beam.

“Is it your friend from the other day? The one with the Governor? The Governor’s a nice young man, isn’t he? Taking us in like this…” The Governor spiel is one T-Dog nods through every fifteen minutes, but the prefix about Merle is new and entirely unwanted. He cuts her off before she can begin on what she’d do to the Governor if she were only fifty years younger.

“He ain’t my friend.”

“Oh.” Wendy dodders a moment. T-Dog sees the new information sink in, wash out, and be disregarded as irrelevant to her senile little world. “Give him my best,” she says, and reels T-Dog in so she can sandwich pruney lips against his cheek. T-Dog bears the peck with grace. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her the sort of man Merle is. Hopefully, if he orders him to fuck off, Wendy can die happy having never found out.

***

“Getcher knife,” is the first thing Merle says when he opens the door. He’s leaning on one side of the frame, good arm tapping on the other. T-Dog can’t work out if the rhythm is eager or irritable. Merle’s expression swings to the latter when T-Dog doesn’t budge. “You gone deaf as well as stupid? Knife, now!”

“Why,” says T-Dog, wondering whether arriving unarmed had been wise. If Merle wants a knife fight, he won’t play nice and wait for him to make ready; he’ll shank T-Dog in the gut the moment he thinks his guard’s down. Merle takes note of the untrusting frown, and repeats that mocking chortle that had had T-Dog wincing in pity for Daryl the other day.

“Aw. You scared? Of lil’ ol’ me?”

T-Dog doesn’t _see_ a weapon on him. But he knows better than to assume that means there isn’t one. “Why’re you here, Dixon,” he says to change the subject.

Merle looks grumpy that his pseudo-friendliness isn’t getting the desired response. He huffs, retreating so his heels are off the edge of the step, weight rocked onto his toes, and fishes from his waistband – T-Dog called it! – a goddam hunting knife as long as his forearm. “I’m goin’ to the farm,” he announces, before T-Dog can backpedal out of stabbing range. “And you’re comin’ with.”

“You’re outta your mind,” T-Dog says, and shuts the door.

At least, he _tries_ to shut the door. Merle inserts his boot and grins at him smarmily through the gap. Not wanting to force him to amputate a foot as well – although it _is_ mighty tempting – T-Dog cusses and yanks it open, taking pleasure in Merle’s surprised stumble.

“And _you’re_ mighty rude, spear-chucker. What the hell kinda _southern hospitality_ is this? And ya wonder why we think of yer kind as ‘uncivilized’ –“ He shuts his mouth when T-Dog glares, remembering that he’s here to request help. Then decides fuck it, and opens it again. “Now you listen here, Mr Yo,” he begins, looming in with voice rasping at the bottom of his register. “You and me, we’re gonna drive out to that farm. Then yer gonna point out to me where ya last saw Daryl, wherever he mighta been. And I’m gonna pray the Governor’s goons ain’t destroyed the trail when they went over the place with their fine-toothed fuckin’ comb. Gottit?”

When Merle uses that voice, he’s used to being obeyed. When he uses that voice, he’s used to druggies, little brothers, bouncers, thugs twice his size and prison toughs griping and grumbling and bowing to his will – albeit with physical coercion, where needed. He’s not used to having someone yawn.

“Sorry,” says T-Dog. “Been starin’ at textbooks all morning. Don’t know how I’m supposed to teach these kids when I hardly know the material myself, but –“ He trails off. Takes in Merle’s expression. “Uh. You were saying something.” Fuck, this is more than useless. But he needs the big oaf with him on this, so with him is where he’s going. Merle figures the time for conversation is over. He grabs T-Dog and tugs him sharply doorwards. “Hey, wait – Dixon! We can’t go back there! Y’know how many walkers there’ll be between us and that place? We can’t walk it!”

“That’s why,” says Merle through gritted teeth, “we’re takin’ the car.” He nods at the elderly bird stooped in the kitchen doorway, hands frozen halfway through drying a chipped china saucer. “Later, lady. Don’tchu look at me like that – I’ll return him when m’done with him. Now, you gotta knife or am I gonna have to steal another one?”

“Steal? You _stole_ that? From the _Governor?_ ” Boggling, T-Dog twists his forearm from Merle’s grasp – but when Merle growls and keeps stalking onwards, he stumbles after him, waving bye to Wendy as he goes. At the end of the day, he supposes anything’s better than school prep. And – just possibly – he’s hopeful that Merle will turn up something that the Governor missed. However, his potential reuniting with the Atlanta camp survivors doesn’t outweigh the threat of being booted from Woodbury for conspiracy to thieve. With that in mind T-Dog trots after Merle, returning the various nods he gets from the Woodbury passers-by in harried agitation. “What d’you mean, you _stole it?_ ” he hisses. 

"Ya need me to fetch a dictionary?”

“No! But – look, ya can’t do that. Not here. You wanna strike by your name?”

Merle strides ahead, shrug artfully careless. “Don’t matter. I can survive out there on my own, if I gotta – but you can’t. Not without a knife. And…” He spins to smirk at T-Dog, walking backwards with the expectation any pedestrians will get out of his way, and levels his knife at him like it's a talon. “Much as I’d love to leave yer big brown lardass swingin’ like a walker-piñata, I need ya on this one.”

Yeah. Like _that_ image makes T-Dog raring to traipse after Merle across the Georgia wilderness. He halts. “I don’t trust you.”

“Din’ I just say I _weren’t_ gonna off ya? Although, still might if ya keep on like this…”

“Who authorized you?” T-Dog asks, slicing across the babble. “Who said you could leave?”

Merle sighs, sounding ten kinds of aggrieved, and hooks one arm across T-Dog’s shoulders in a gesture of camaraderie that feels more like a headlock. “The Governor, stupid. Told me to bring you ‘specially – so there, you ain’t gotta choice. Now, would ya rather we hung around until night? Or shall we get this show on th’road before sundown?”

 _Ain’t got no choice_. Well, he’s right there. T-Dog irons out his scowl, wondering whether shoving Merle away would be too telling. If he lets on that his brand of sneery familiarity bothers him, Merle’ll only amp up the performance to see how long it takes him to snap. “Armory’s this way,” he says, pointing along the road they’ve just crossed – and conveniently barging off the faux-friendly half embrace in the process. “Tell Gargiulo the Governor sent us, and he’ll fork over what we need.”

“Spic, huh?” Merle retreats as per the silent request, lingering in T-Dog’s peripherals like a malignant ghost. The toothy grin means Merle’s pegged that he’s bothered him, and T-Dog prays for patience on what will, no doubt, be one very long roadtrip.

“He’s Argentinian.”

“Whatever!”

***

T-Dog selects his weapons with due diligence, while Merle huffs and fidgets in the background, impatient to be underway. “Finished window-shopping?” he asks, when T-Dog settles on a stout kukri, a smaller butterfly knife that can be stashed in a pocket or up a sleeve, and a metal baseball bat. He lashes the sheathe around his waist, hooking the belt at its loosest – and ignoring Merle’s smirk; of _course_ he’s bulky, he was a goddam linebacker, and all of his heft’s _power_ , not _flab_ – and tucking his t-shirt into his pants so it doesn’t encumber him in the field.

“Good to go,” he replies. Taps fists with Gargiulo. “Seeya later, brother.”

“I’ll bust out the beers we got on the last raid,” Gargiulo promises. He watches Merle warily, picking up on something in the atmosphere that says he isn’t to be trusted. Wise boy. T-Dog squeezes his shoulder, one corner of his mouth lifting, and nods.

“Lookin’ forwards to it.” When he breaks away, Merle snorts like he’s been forced to witness them hold hands in public, and beckons for T-Dog to follow him into the blazing summer light.

“Ain’t chu gonna extend an invite to me?” he pokes, as soon as they’re alone. “Or is this shindig a two-cat affair?”

T-Dog tells himself that any genuine hope under the ascorbic words is a figment of his imagination. They’re just outside the walls, having scrambled up and over with the assistance of the guys on watch. For some reason, Merle had led them round to the rear of Woodbury to make their ascent, far from where the Governor’s demonstrating rudimentary firearms to a huddle of gangly teens at the settlement’s fore entrance. Unable to climb, he had needed the most help – and sworn the ear off anyone in the vicinity to make up for it. T-Dog’s already sick of hearing him talk. He opens the door of the little car they’ve been granted, worming his way inside and saying goodbye to comfort in his legs for the next coupla days – space’s so tight his knees are crammed to his chin. He fastens the buckle over belly and knife-holster alike. “What, so you can call us _spic_ and _nigger_ all night? I don’t think so.”

Merle bristles. “Hey, how come you get t’say them? That ain’t fair. And – hold on a sec, Speedy Gonzales. Who said you’re drivin’?”

“I’ve seen you ride your motorbike,” T-Dog reminds him, hands resting on the wheel and staring straight ahead. Set them anywhere outside his field of vision and they might start strangling Merle of their own accord. “Anyone who thinks blastin’ an engine that loud while trying t’stay away from the biters, doesn’t get a say.”

“You’ve seen me ride my bike off my head on meth!”

“Oh?” T-Dog glances at him from the corner of his eye. “That’s changed then?”

Frowning, Merle spreads his arms – one uncannily short – and presents himself as if readying for a pat-down. “Course it has, I look like a druggie anymore?”

Not in the same way as back then. Not jigging and mad and willing to shoot the face off anyone who looked at him dirty. But there’s still that hyper energy, prickly like static, as if he’s been standing too close to a transformer substation. When Merle starts kicking the hubcaps rather than deigning to lower himself into the passenger seat, T-Dog exhales in a noisy rush and boots his door open once more. “Okay, okay! Christ. You drive there, I drive back. And I’m only compromisin’ because I wanna get outta there before we lose the light!”

Merle’s grin is sharp and bright. When he’s abreast with T-Dog, choosing to round the boot clockwise rather than skip past the bonnet and avoid him, he bangs his shoulder into T-Dog’s chest. It’s not hard enough to wind, but it doesn’t need to, to make a statement. _Made ya back down. I’m Alpha here._

He’s the child, more like. Who cares if he’s got a couple of years on T-Dog? He sure doesn’t act like it.

Rubbing his collarbone, T-Dog makes a rude noise in his throat and heads for the passenger side. That dumb macho act’s gonna get Merle killed one day. The sooner the better, in T-Dog's opinion – but he’d rather it didn’t happen on his watch. He prefers his beauty sleep uninterrupted by nightmares or misplaced guilt. “Let’s go,” he growls, shutting the door so hard that it judders the whole vehicle. At least his legs can stretch an inch further now. “You can gloat after you’ve sniffed the ashes, or whatever you redneck freaks do t’find each other. Just geddon with it.”

“First smart thing y’ve said all day.” Merle turns the ignition, revs with the exhilaration of a dog let off its leash, and shoots him a wink before jamming accelerator to floor and lurching them forwards in a peel of gravel and dust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hey y'all. Drop me a comment if you've enjoyed the story so far! I appreciate every one.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: Merle being a racist and touting some stereotypical ideas about black male anatomy.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The true slashiness begins here. Enjoy.**

They settle into a rhythm after ten miles of wooded road. Merle talks. Merle swears. Merle says something that even a neo-Nazi would construe as offensive; T-Dog tells Merle to shut-up; Merle does not shut-up; T-Dog stares out of the window with renewed concentration. Gargiulo had been kind enough to include a map in their travel-pack of weapons and bottled water from the Woodbury well, so they don’t have to rely on T-Dog’s sense of direction – just his map reading skills, as Merle has named him navigator.

After the fifth wrong turn, T-Dog’s not sure if Merle’s being uncharacteristically patient, or is wreaking more amusement from his frustration than he would from cussing him out, as T-Dog turns the map around and around, unable to make a headway.

The second theory is proven. “You never been a boy scout?” asks Merle with a chuckle.

“No,” says T-Dog, giving in and crumpling the map into the glove compartment. Looks like they’ll be following his gut instinct after all – so much for his hopes of returning by sundown. “You?”

Merle’s stare is incredulous, and rightfully so. T-Dog thanks the lord it only lasts a second – otherwise it would’ve been the sixth time he’d have had to order – beg, more like – Merle to direct his incessant mocking commentary to the road ahead rather than his unwilling audience. “Naw,” comes the reply as Merle swerves to hit the severed leg of a woman, sock and trainer still included. “Army. Better, if y’ask me. But not by much.”

The leg doesn’t crunch so much as _squish_. T-Dog winces. “For real? Guess I always figured army’d be worse for – uh. Someone like you.”

The angle of Merle’s eyebrow suggests that may not have been the wisest way to end that sentence. “And what,” he asks, wrenching them around a long-cold three-car pile-up with more force than needed, “do ya mean by that?”

 _Someone who doesn’t like being thought of as what they are: good-for-nothing junkie trailer-trash._ If Chevrolet were still in business, T-Dog would ring in a complaint. The diameters of their Aveos leave a lot to be desired when you’re attempting to crane away from an angry redneck. Then he reminds himself that Merle preys on weakness like a shark scenting bloody water, and amends his posture to one he can be proud of when the Governor’s men find his corpse: stiff-backed and staring straight ahead, gaze neutral. “Oh y’know. Someone who don’t like following orders.”

Sunlight alternately strobes and blurs through the overhanging trees, turning the road to a blazing oilspill. The silence drags too long.

T-Dog dares a glance at Merle, pondering fight or flight. It’s a toss-up between rolling out the door and hoping for the best, or slamming Merle’s face on the dash and potentially killing them both. However, Merle’s released his one-handed stranglehold on the steering-wheel, resting his stump on the bottom arc so he can flex his tendons while maintaining control. He looks almost relieved, in that second before he notices T-Dog staring and plasters on the usual menacing sneer. “Whatchu lookin’ at me like that for? I know there ain’t much variety among the dames no more, but I still bat that way, so why don’tcha direct them peepers elsewhere?”

Typical. Snorting, T-Dog does so. And grabs the wheel, yanking hard.

The spokes smack Merle’s stump. He slams the brakes on instinct, car skidding perpendicular to what had caught T-Dog’s attention and trailing smoky burnt rubber. “Holy shit!” Merle slaps the dashboard once he’s pried himself off it (idiot should’ve worn a seatbelt then, shouldn’t he?) “The fuck didya do that for, you goddam ni – uh, cunt?” Ahead, the trees split to reveal a slender dirt road. Pointing it out earns him a growl. “Aw, you wanna take the scenic route? Maybe when you’re drivin’.”

T-Dog can’t help but feel guilty when he spies the new bruise on Merle’s jaw. It doesn’t last. “No, dumbass. The farmhouse’s up there. I remember this bit – I seen it before.”

“So ya ain’t all useless,” Merle snipes. But he heaves their buggy around and starts grinding his way along the dirt-and-grit road. The car’s too-small tyres spin in the sand. Walkers huddle under the trees; T-Dog’s almost too afraid to check if he recognizes them, but forces himself to do so and is relieved to find that none look familiar. They turn their ghoulish grey faces as the car passes, slimy and sagging from exposure to the roasting sun. But their gangrenous legs are no match for the Aveo’s 138hp, and they soon lose interest in the chase. T-Dog shudders as their limping, swaying figures recede in the rearview mirror.

“Don’tchu worry,” says Merle cheerfully, thumping his arm with the stump. “There’ll be plenty more where we’re goin’. You’ll get yer kills in yet.”

T-Dog doesn’t dare mention one of those kills might be Merle’s brother. He doesn’t know what the man might do if that worst case scenario should come to pass. Probably scream. And shout. And fire guns repeatedly in the air, drawing every walker in Georgia down on ‘em…

…Or not, given that they’d settled on knives for this mission. Of course, Merle could’ve always sneaked a pistol from Gargiulo when T-Dog wasn’t watching, but in that case it’s better for them to be gobbled by a herd than face the Governor’s wrath.

T-Dog rubs his goatee. Yeah, the man’s been decent so far. Done a damn fine job of building Woodbury up and holding it together: a microcosmic oasis in a world-spanning wasteland. But although he doesn’t allow himself to think such thoughts when he’s in the town, now he’s outside the walls T-Dog can’t help but wonder _how_ the Governor had secured his power so neatly, so cleanly, so _ethically_ , when the world’s gone to shit.

Something doesn’t add up.

But if he keeps contemplating that, he might actually work it out – and then there’ll be no going back. That’s the last thing T-Dog wants. “Up ahead,” he tells Merle, and Merle must be attuned to his mood because rather than reminding T-Dog that it’s a straight track and there ain’t nowhere else to go, he nods and eases the accelerator down until they’re cutting and sliding through dirt that hasn’t been packed under wheels since T-Dog fled, so fast that the trees whizz into a blur.

***

The old farm’s smaller than T-Dog remembers. Although there’s an obvious reason for that.

Whole place’s burnt out, bar the doorframe and the chimney stack. The roof has sunk in some parts and caved completely in others, windows burst and frame warped, molten glass solidified in gnobbly lava lumps that squeak and grind under their heels as they pad through the old grey ash. Anyone trapped inside would have been roasted alive. If there’s a silver lining, it’s that they’d be too crisped to turn. T-Dog nevertheless holds a fair share of apprehension about going anywhere near the place.

Merle doesn’t share his fears. As soon as the engine’s dead he’s off, knife glinting wicked-sharp. It elongates his good arm, making him curiously lopsided as he stalks towards the standing pillars of the front doorframe and gives it a mocking knock. “Hello?” he calls. “Anyone at home?”

T-Dog clicks the handle on his door, unfolding with a wince. “What d’ya think you’re doing?” He flaps for Merle to silence himself. “If there’s any in there, you’ll draw them out!”

“Thas the idea,” Merle says, and before T-Dog can stop him, marches back to the car and bangs his knife three times on the hood.

The rings echo around the clearing. T-Dog imagines walkers for a kilometre around tipping their blind eyes to the sky, locating the source of the sound, before turning and lurching their way towards them. “You’re crazy!” he shouts. Not much point keeping his voice down now. “You don’t know what’s in the house, you don’t know what’s in the woods –“

“S’right,” Merle answers, bleakly assessing the first walker to come stumbling from the treeline. It’s unfamiliar – a man, older than both of them, dragging a twisted leg. The femur parts the skin, the only glimmer of white amidst diseased and putrid flesh, and Merle hollers back to T-Dog “You know him?” before stabbing him in the eyesocket.

Pus spurts. Merle sniggers. T-Dog shakes his head. “Onto the next then,” Merle says, spinning to face the approaching half-dozen that assortedly lope, shuffle, and crawl out of the forest.

***

T-Dog dreads glimpsing a burnt limb, or a face torched almost beyond recognition but still clinging to the shape of Lori’s mouth; Rick’s strong nose. But none of the walkers they kill have been touched by a fire.

“Well,” muses Merle, slapping gunk off his shirt. The last corpse had spurted like a goddam geyser; they’re both drizzled in maroon-black goo. “If thas all the biters in these here parts, looks like my brother got away.” It’s the first hint that he might have suspected otherwise. T-Dog, breathing like he’s been sprinting up flights of stairs, rests his hands on his knees and nods. Merle pounds him on the bicep with a balled fist – T-Dog tenses, more than aware of the bloodied knife in Merle’s hands – and jerks his thumb at the ruins. “C’mon. Yer gonna show me where Daryl was last.”

***

“Here,” says T-Dog, quiet and solemn.

Inexperienced he might be in the art of the woodsman, but even he knows they have no chance. It’s simply been too long. The wind, the rain, the tramp of walkers’ feet… Not to mention the clumsy blunder of the Governor’s men combing the house for survivors or supplies. All have obliterated any evidence that might direct them along the path of Daryl’s flight.

He points out the scorched veranda, memory drawing the details in perfect clarity. Daryl, flames licking his back, focused only on the recoil of the crossbow and the advancing horde as Rick bundled Carl from the smoking wreckage behind him. When Merle moves he does not shatter the reminiscence so much as distort it. He crosses to stand where T-Dog’s indicated. Positioning himself facing the abandoned wasteland of barn and field, his body merges into the Daryl of T-Dog’s mind’s eye, then abruptly reasserts itself as Merle and Merle alone.

Daryl’s not here.

Daryl’s long gone, and despite having trawled all the way here and taken out a goddam garrison of walkers on the way, they have no clues as to _where._

The effects on Merle are pronounced. His usual smirk fades. It’s replaced by a frown, one ornamented with the faintest quiver of overtensed facial muscles – as if Merle’s realizing what an insurmountable task he’s embarked on. Certainly in his position, T-Dog would rather mourn than wear himself to the bone chasing false hopes. But studying Merle’s gunk-smeared profile with an empathy he doesn’t want to feel, T-Dog knows that’s exactly what the older Dixon will do.

T-Dog thumbs a piece of stray intestinal tract off his shirt like it’s pocket lint. He shuffles his feet, unsure of what to say. Words of consolation? A gruff and wholly inadequate ‘sorry’?

No, he reminds himself. Merle only ever beat on Daryl and abused him. It’s good he got away. It’s good Merle won’t find him. T-Dog tries to convince himself of that as Merle squares his shoulders, juts his chin, and steps off the porch in a straight line, charcoal stained bootsoles trailing a long line of prints towards the woods.

Aw hell. “Where you going?” T-Dog asks, jogging to catch up. He’s a little breathless from the fight still – must’ve been too long in Woodbury; out here, getting flabby is getting dead.

Merle shakes off the hand before it even touches his shoulder. “Quick circle through th’woods,” he grunts. “Won’t take half an hour, I ain’t goin’ far. Get yer ass back to the car.”

T-Dog shakes his head, dodging in front of Merle to block his passage. “Oh no. Haven’t you ever seen a horror movie?”

“This ain’t no goddam story.”

“I’m telling you, man, splitting up’s a shit idea. Black guy always dies first, for a start –“

Whirling in a fierce flurry, Merle waves his knife close enough to nick T-Dog’s septum. His eyes are bleak and grey, cold as T-Dog’s ever seen them, almost of a shade with the steel. “Black guy will die first if he don’t do as he’s told.” Unimpressed, T-Dog shoves his hand to one side. Merle brings up the other to smack him – remembers at the last moment, swears, and glares at his stump as if it’s given him personal insult. “Fuck this.”

And… well, now’s as good a time as any, right? T-Dog wets his lips and nods at the gnarly, white-puckered scar. “For the record, man. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean for none of that to happen…”

Merle snorts. Taps his fingers on the knife hilt – T-Dog sees him think about using it, but pass it up with a quiet scoff. Instead, he nods to the scar marring T-Dog’s own forearm, the one from where the horde had accosted them on the road and he’d sliced an artery in his arm and nearly turned there and then. “Looks like karma ain’t all bullshit, at least.”

T-Dog manages a smile. “I guess. Oh! And – hey, it were Daryl that saved me. Stopped me bleeding out, an’ everything. Thanks to him, I just gotta nice scar to wow the ladies with – not nearly so nasty as yours, of course.” He pauses. Wets his lips, wondering if this is best left until they’re back in civilization. But if he honestly believes the presence of an audience would make Merle behave himself when confronted for belting his brother, he’d have called him out on it the moment he saw his dumb ugly face on his porch. “Or his.”

That makes Merle look at him properly, ceasing his shifty side-eye, which had made T-Dog almost as nervous as the fidget of his nails across the knife. “What d’you mean? My baby bro ain’t the prettiest, but if his mug gets any more fucked up he’ll never pull a bird.”

“No, no…” T-Dog bypasses the last part of that statement – as far as he’d been able to tell, the only birds Daryl had spared a hungry glance for were the pigeons they skewered and roasted on the campfire. “I’m talking about the other ones. Y’know. The ones on his back.”

Like that’s not probing at all.

Merle, for some reason, looks less angry than bemused. “What chu talkin’ about, boy –“

His voice cuts off. T-Dog watches his gaze pin on something over his shoulder, then widen in unmistakable shock – an expression that’s not reassuring on anyone’s face, but less so on Merle Dixon’s.

T-Dog turns to follow it. He's stopped by Merle, who smacks his cheek to keep him still. “They ain’t seen us yet,” he mutters, voice lower than T-Dog’s ever heard it. That’s enough to get T-Dog’s hackles rising, and he itches to turn and face the threat, whatever it may be, at the same time as he shies from the thought of it like a child in a nightmare. "With us bein’ half-covered in biter-guts, I reckon they ain’t smelt us neither. So. Start shufflin’ for the car. After me.”

T-Dog risks one glance, as they round the corner of the house. He sees a group of at least fifty walkers, far too many for them to fight, lowing as they drag their carcasses up the hill. Merle’s ruckus must’ve carried further than they assumed. “Hell,” he whimpers.

Two steps ahead, Merle stares doggedly at their goal: the miniature car that will, in a few minutes, be buffeted by hungry dead. “Grab yerself a handful o’gunk,” he orders T-Dog out of the corner of his mouth as they pass the bodies of the ones they’d gutted earlier. “Rub it all over. Want their stink on every bit of ya.”

T-Dog flashes back to Atlanta, to the walk Rick and Glenn had made through the biter-crowded streets. Shudders. Nods. Obeys.

He smears goop on his collarbones, chest and face, thighs and calves too, constantly checking over one shoulder to ensure they’re beyond the weak eyesight of the walkers stumbling past the charcoaled husk of the barn. “Spin,” Merle says, gory handful at the ready, and smacks it between T-Dog’s shoulderblades. The cold dampness smears his shirt, like an elephant’s sneeze. T-Dog grimaces, but digs a soggy lump of his own from the nearest walker’s maggoty leg so he can return the favour.

Weird, how even the _concept_ of touching rotting flesh would’ve brought vomit up his throat a coupla years back. But you adapt to some things faster than others. Being covered in walker-slime is one of them.

It turns out that tracing the muscles of a redneck’s back with walker-blood is, too.

They head for the car. Merle wisely chooses to unlock the door manually rather than using the noisy clicker on the keys. He swings in first – aiming for the footwell of the rear seats, where there’s almost enough space for a man out horizontal if he keeps his legs bent, and lowers himself face down on the ground. The backseat overhang undercuts further than one would expect from above. If Merle crooks up his knees like a swimmer snapshotted halfway through a breaststroke, he can tuck his feet behind the line of the door. Ain’t exactly comfortable. But it’ll keep him safe.

T-Dog blinks. “Uh, where’m I meant to go?”

The look shot over Merle’s shoulder, neck twisted to an unnatural angle for the sole purpose of glaring, speaks volumes. “You can sun yerself on the damn seat for all I care – ain’t like they’re gonna bother breakin’ in the windows if they think we’re dead like them.”

“And yet,” says T-Dog, voice dropping in volume but increasing in furious intensity as the pack rounds the farmhouse’s fire-bulged walls, “I notice _you’re_ in the footwell. Out of sight.”

“Well, hurry up and work somethin’ out, before I shut the door on ya. Climb in the boot if yer such a pussy – woah! Hold it, this ain’t what I –“

“Shuddup,” T-Dog grunts, wriggling into the space between front and back seats on top of him. He pulls the door shut, popping the lock as an afterthought, and feels a little more confident with a barrier (albeit one of glass and lightweight aluminium) between him and the oncoming herd. But like hell is he taking the seat. Not when there’s more cover to be found. It’ll be tight, it’ll be awkward; Merle sure as hell isn’t gonna be pleased by it – but hey. It might get the both of them out of this alive.

That plan’ll be dashed if Merle stabs him.

Thought in mind, T-Dog unhooks the knife Merle’d shoved in his belt when he first opened the door, working cackhandedly under his belly. Once he’s extracted it, he pushes it beneath the passenger’s seat, far out of reach. Merle protests. It’s a wordless snarl, barely audible – thank fuck. But with him having wedged himself chest-down and with only one hand for leverage, he’d struggle to lift himself, let alone force the weightier T-Dog against the lull of gravity.

Still, he wriggles and fidgets, hissing insults. _Nigger_ included, T-Dog notes with disappointment; serves him right for daring hope Merle could ever make progress. He twists like a pinned wildcat, knees thumping the underside of the chairs – T-Dog’s own press between them, keeping Merle in as much as a spread-eagle as possible in the confined space, while T-Dog’s shins are propped against the door. He doesn’t stop fighting until T-Dog puts his mouth besides his ear and growls “Quiet, damn you.”

After that, the results are nigh immediate.

His body bucks once more before settling in tense defeat. Those firm swoops of rhomboid, which had been tough as sun-warmed cables under T-Dog’s hands when he applied Merle’s coating of gunge, now go soft and lax against his chest. “Good,” he murmurs, more out of habit than anything. “You’re doin’ good.”

Positive reinforcement may work wonders with the kids, but T-Dog never expected it to have any use for the arsenal he’s gathering under the label _dealing with rednecks._ Nevertheless, the evidence can’t lie. Merle’s oddly quiet after that.

T-Dog squeezes fully atop him, feeling as if he’s being forced through a funnel, and wraps his hands over his close-shaved skull so he’s not tempted to watch the walkers lurch by. Merle’s sandwiched into the carpets, breath compressed out of him by T-Dog’s weight. His lips are uncomfortable close to Merle’s neck. It, along with his face, are eclipsed in shadow; the seats part the bright sunlight in patches, and even a living human might have trouble discerning man from darkness, especially with every inch of Merle’s pale skin buried under T-Dog’s brown. A half-blind biter relying on its ears and nose should be none the wiser. However, it’s thanks to that paleness that even in the shadows, T-Dog notices the blotchy redness gathering on Merle’s stubbled cheeks. It’s the same colour he’d gone when he was yodelling out his window and demanding T-Dog pay him attention. Red for anger, red for danger.

Course, the idiot asshole would get uppity about the supposed intimacy of their position. He must be itching for a chance to loudly reclaim his stupid Alpha-male status.

T-Dog, far from the most liberal southerner, rolls his eyes regardless when a dumbass like Merle puts reputation before survival. He braces himself for a fistfight as soon as this demeaning ordeal is through, recalling how Merle’d snapped at his seconds-too-long stare in the car, and prays he can reach Merle’s confiscated knife before he does.

For now though, all they can do is wait.

He’d like to say it was over quickly. He’d be lying.

Each second stretches as if it’s being rolled out by a baker’s pin. Merle’s breath rasps smoky at the base of his throat, and the walkers pass in near silence but for the drag of their unfeeling feet and their low moans. The soundscape is an atonal funeral march: an undead choir singing in discordant monotony. To term it ‘eerie’ would be gross understatement.

Every so often T-Dog feels a waft of cool, as the sun hitting his lower back is blocked by a passing ghoul, and despite the humid bodyheat gathering along the seam of Merle’s back and T-Dog’s stomach, he shivers. When they thump the car they do so in the careless, unthinking way of clumsy animals. Their sagging weight doesn’t do more than shake it. But T-Dog knows, with the grim certainty of one who’s witnessed such occurrences, that should a single walker pause to scent the aromatic bouquet of sweat and breath and living flesh that’s seeping through their bloody bodypaint, they’ll batter this fragile box until it shatters.

Then… Well, then perhaps it’d be best if he let Merle have the knife after all. T-Dog’s got his own; he’ll gladly turn its point on himself if it means he’ll be dead before he’s gouged apart by yellowed corpse-teeth. But Merle deserves a chance to fight. To die on his own terms, like any other man.

T-Dog’s grip on the carpet besides Merle’s nose tightens. His chin quivers in terror as the next cool spot to fall across his back doesn’t pass at the same rate as the others. _Quit being so morbid_ , he orders himself. _We’re gonna be fine._

And, against all odds, they are.

The lagging walker is tail-end-Charlie. Its lope is punctuated every second step by a half-collapse as its splintered femur gouges the earth, foot twisted and dragging at the ankle, held on by a single ligament. But slowly, steadily, its grunts fade.

Silence creeps in, like the numbness after an explosion. T-Dog and Merle don’t dare risk movement. Not yet.

A minute passes. And another. The sunlight has been uninterrupted since that final walker lurched away; T-Dog’s nape's starting to sweat, and he can only imagine how hot Merle is, pinned beneath his bulk.

“Y’alright?” he dares whisper, after the fifth minute has rolled by and they’re still not biter-chow. Merle croaks something breathless, wriggling for the first time in what feels like hours – at least he hasn’t suffocated the asshole. T-Dog winces as their hips grind. It’s purely by accident; he’s too terrified for his cock to convert the friction into anything other than uncomfortable. There’s nothing he’d like more than to pull away, give Merle space to rant and rave and swing at him – well, maybe not those middle two; last thing they need is for the herd to return. But it’s still too soon to risk it.

He crushes his lower body down, forcing Merle to spread his thighs painfully wide so they’re not trapped and numbed. Merle’s knee bumps the chair adjuster. Something sticky on the carpet – chewing gum, _delightful_ – gums itself to T-Dog’s jeans. “Just a lil’ longer,” he pants in Merle’s ear. “Just a lil’.”

And Merle grits his teeth, tendons straining in his bright red neck, and nods.

He orders his prick to soften with little success. T-Dog’s smothering weight bears onto him, into him, bodies flat-packed together. He’s been stiffening since that first growl. It’d been all vibration, T-Dog’s broad chest rumbling like a far-off steam train, and Merle’d told himself it was only natural after a dry-spell, nothing to do with the party involved. Heck, he’d be sprouting a third fuckin’ leg if it was a twink on his back. He’d managed to manoeuvre so his cock was trapped against his jeans rather than his inner thigh. Bit more comfortable that way, when you expected to be stuck for long periods. But a bit more _noticeable_ too though, whenever T-Dog’s uneven, panicked breaths ground them together like pestle and mortar.

And as much as Merle wants him off, he doubts the tent in his pants will go unnoticed for long.

Perhaps if he lets T-Dog lay on him a while longer, his brain’ll match up _person_ with _sensation_ , and his cock’ll be so embarrassed it’ll wither of his own accord. Because _Merle’s_ not the embarrassed one. No siree. He’s just a lil pissed off is all; at T-Dog, at himself, at his damn traitorous body, at Daryl for not being there, at the universe in general for conspiring to force him into this absurd situation. Trapped under a lardass negro. Horny as a fuckin’ rhinoceros. And possibly – just possibly – wondering whether certain rumors about black guys are built upon a grain of truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This was written/edited incredibly fast, even by my standards. Please report any noticed errors/spelling/grammar mistakes!**
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	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **In which night falls on Woodbury, T-Dog drinks, and Merle can't sleep.**

The world’s timeless without the plod of Walker-feet. Merle’s heartbeat isn’t the most reliable chronometer, given that it revs like a hummingbird’s whenever T-Dog shifts against him (over him; on top of him; he’s so heavy and solid and _there_ , and the universe must be feeling cruel today, because why else would Merle not realize how much he craved close contact until it was inescapable?) He forces himself to breathe steady and deep. Refuses to imagine what this could feel like in another place, another context.

He hates T-Dog, right? Only reason he’s hot under the collar is because it’s been _so long_ …

Which is why Merle can be excused for growling when he feels T-Dog shift in preparation to stand. T-Dog, misinterpreting, freezes.

“Uh. Please don’t kill me.”

Right. No killing. He can manage that. Merle’s almost tempted to laugh. It’s good not to be underestimated, but how exactly T-Dog thinks he means to butcher him when the knife’s outta reach and he and Merle are decently matched, strength-for-strength, is beyond him. He’s sure he could make a damn good effort though. Get the both of them dead when the herd returns to investigate.

…It might have been tempting, if they’d found Daryl’s body. But Daryl’s still alive, Merle’s sure of it, and so long as the younger Dixon’s still kicking, Merle has to survive too.

T-Dog caterpillar-crawls from the cramped footwell (Merle’s chest reinflates in silent relief). Once free, he sticks out a hand. Merle takes it, bicep bunching. He yanks T-Dog in for a gut-punch. “Fuckin’ negro,” he snarls, heaving himself onto the seat while T-Dog curls over his fist and staggers to the rear – giving Merle a chance to crook his legs to his chest to hide his erection. “The heck you thinkin’, getting up close and cosy with me? You wanna hug somebody, I’ll find ya a nice biter lady t’get yer nookie on with.”

“Pass,” T-Dog wheezes.

“Yeah?” Merle cracks a nasty smirk, fishing under the chair with one boot for the knife. “Could hitch ya t’some dead dame and setcha up in a lil’ house with a front garden an’ a picket fence.”

T-Dog’s still watching him with wary mistrust, but his shoulders relax when Merle slides the knife into his belt. “Apartment complex, more like. Us city folk ain’t so keen on gardens an’ shit. Too much work to keep pretty.”

“Huh. Shoulda seen our garden. Weren’t nothing to boast about.” It’d been filled with more weeds than the woodland behind. He’d lost Daryl a coupla times, when the brat’d just started to toddle. Damn near trodden on a snake crawling through the underbrush to find him. Snorting, Merle grabs the carframe and hauls himself to stand. The metal’s sun-hot under his palms. He faces away from T-Dog on the other side of the car, forcing his breathing to steady, praying the stiffness in his groin recedes as quickly as it arrived. Once he’s no longer straining at the front of his pants he stretches, crikking every vertebrae, and holds up his good hand to shield his eyes while they adjust to the glare.

His shirt’s stuck to his back with sweat. T-Dog’s front is in no better condition. It’d been mighty stuffy in there. If it weren’t for the sweet familiarity of a man on his back, Merle might’ve been whaling on T-Dog for getting his only vest slimy. He can’t very well swagger to the nearest river and dunk it without walker-breath raising the hairs on his neck, and the prospect of being covered in sweat and blood for the foreseeable future ain’t a pleasant one. He settles for saying “Fuck, y’need to lose weight. Almost gave me heatstroke.”

“It’s muscle!” T-Dog protests. Catches Merle’s smirk, and – well, he never knew black folks could blush, but judging by the expression, that’s exactly what’s occurring. “Mostly. Fuck off.”

Merle laughs. “An’ my hand’s just hidin’ in my sleeve.” He waggles the bare stump, noting T-Dog’s wince. The man seems reluctant to mention what just occurred, no doubt hoping that if he pretends it never happened then Merle’ll play along. Merle’s more than happy to indulge him. Less effort required than to threaten him into silence. “We’d better get going if Cinderella wants t’be in Woodbury by sundown,” he says, once assure little Merle ain’t gonna be popping back into the picture any time soon. T-Dog snatches his elbow as he swings into the driver’s seat.

“Hey! I thought we agreed – I drive back!”

“That were before ya used me as a cushion.” Merle yawns, unhooks the knife, and uses its point to pick at his teeth. “Mighty heavy gut you got there. Could always help deflate it a bit, if you don’t quit yer griping and geddin.” His eyes catch T-Dog’s in the wing mirror. “Or jus’ leave ya here to wait on yer biter-bride.”

That does it. T-Dog scrambles for the passenger door. “I hate you,” he mutters as Merle twists the ignition, revving with nonchalant glee.

“I know,” Merle passes back, unable to resist stealing the last word. He doesn’t wait for T-Dog to buckle up before kicking their little buggy down the track in a blaze of loose, spiralling sand.

***

Night falls rapidly over the Georgia plains. By the time Merle pulls into the car port outside Woodbury, tyres spinning with the screech of a hungry coyote, twilight is misting the tips of the trees in the distance, blurring them into a shadowy mass. Gripping his knife sideways, ready to slash at anyone living or dead who looms at him from the dark, Merle kicks open his door and stands. There’s a figure on the wall. It watches their approach, silhouetted against the last beams of the setting sun. At first he assumes it’s a guard – but there’s no cocked gun menacing them with its beady grey eye. Just crossed arms and a scowl.

The Governor.

Merle makes a sloppy salute. “’How long you been standin’ there, bossman?”

“Since I noticed I was missing the knife from my desk. And since I dropped by on Wendy and discovered Theodore was nowhere to be found.”

Damn. Bastard must’ve assumed Merle dragged T-Dog away to open his throat beyond the reach of the Woodbury hue and cry. Not that Merle’s done much to displace that assumption, but still: it’s mighty rude of the governor to jump to conclusions.

While Merle’s busy seething, T-Dog nurtures a frown. “What? Didn’t you tell Dixon he was _supposed_ to come find… me…?” He trails off. Merle fights the urge to pull a face at him. Evidently _someone_ lied – and knowing T-Dog, he ain’t putting money on it being the governor.

The man glowers down at them. His cold, sniper-scope gaze logs that while both are drenched in sunbaked gore, they aren’t sporting wounds – neither inflicted by the biters nor each other. T-Dog hunches in the silence, shooting Merle a dirty side-eye. No doubt he’s thinking that this is all his fault. Which – yeah, he ain’t wrong, but Merle’s got a defensive streak a mile wide, and the sense of _judgment_ streaming from the walltop is making his hackles raise.

Merle hops onto the first tyre foothold, shoving his knife into his holster so he can cling one handed. “How’s about ya chew me out when we’re on the inside, bossman? This walker-stink will’ve worn off by now – ya leave us out here and we’ll be chow by mornin’.”

The Governor hesitates long enough to indicate that he could abandon them to such a fate with no regrets, should the need ever arise. Then he smiles pleasantly, and kneels to assist Merle’s one-armed climb. T-Dog struggles up besides him. “I’m glad the two of you have worked through some of your… issues, at least.” Huh. He wishes. “Although next time you set off on one of your ventures, Merle, I expect my orders to be obeyed. It’s for the good of the whole settlement – you understand, don’t you?”

T-Dog hauls himself onto the wall’s flat top and sits panting a moment, staring out at the dark rustling woods and the rising moon. He nods. Merle takes several moments to copy him, and when he does, it’s accompanied by a gobbit of spit sent sailing to splatter on the roof of their car.

“Whatever,” he says. He shakes off the governor’s hand so he can jump into Woodbury unimpeded. His boots thud on tarmac like the muted pound of a timpani drum.

The Governor continues to question him, ignoring that he’s marching briskly away. “Did you have any luck? I have to start organizing stocks for the winter, and extra mouths to feed should really be logged in advance –“

Merle freezes, halfway down the street. Course, the Governor knows precisely where to aim his barbs. “No luck,” he growls. But then, because like hell is he admitting that the Governor was right all along – “We got a clue though. So ya can put both of us down for the long haul. So long as ya don’t go pokin’ yer nose into our business, me and Daryl’ll stay in Woodbury until ya kick us out or it burns to the ground.”

It’s as good an acceptance speech as he’s ever going to give. The Governor nods diplomatically. “We’ll negotiate on what your ‘business’ means at a later date. So you found some clue as to Daryl’s survival?”

No. No they hadn’t. There’s nothing to spur Merle’s determination but the lack of a body – and if Merle tells himself that that’s all he needs often enough, he might start to believe it. Merle glares at T-Dog long and hard, warning him to keep his mouth shut. Then mutters “Something like that,” and slopes off towards his lonely apartment.

***

Dixon’s form is quickly eclipsed by the lengthening shadows. T-Dog’s eyes linger on him longer than they should. He can’t work out whether he’s feeling anger or pity. Why can’t Merle make this simple for him; act like the hateable, brother-beating, racist redneck T-Dog knows him to be?

“Theodore?” asks the Governor, noting the direction of his gaze. “Are you alright? Did he do anything, say anything –“

“I’m fine.” T-Dog shakes his head. “ _We’re_ fine. Sorry about the knife. And about him disobeyin’ ya. I should’ve known to check with ya before running off –“

“No harm done.” Despite his words, the Governor’s smile is cold and jagged. It thaws in increments as he transitions to smalltalk. “So, where to now? Back to Wendy’s? How’re Monday’s lessons coming along?” Slowly. Really, T-Dog should go finish his marking – but Gargiulo’s waiting, potentially with a beer crate, the prospect of which is infinitely more inviting than paperwork. Or better yet; some of Milton’s homebrew. That stuff’s so potent it’d put hairs on the prepubescent chests of T-Dog’s class. He bets it’d knock Dixon down for the count (although fuck knows why he’s thinking about _that_ , seeing as this is one party to which Merle ain’t invited.)

“Meetin’ a friend. Might talk over the lesson plans with him – see what he thinks.”

“Good. Glad to hear it. If you want another opinion, remember I’m always here for you.” The Governor pats his shoulder. As usual, he gives off the impression of being interested in T-Dog’s life without actively engaging in it. Damn politicians. But there’s a silver lining – now the Governor’s reassured his already tense relationship with Merle hasn’t been fractured further by their illicit roadtrip, T-Dog can see himself fading to the rear of the Governor’s mental categorization of Problems To Fix.

T-Dog peels the splattered remains of a biter’s eyeball from his wrist as he swings over the wall's broad flank, boots hitting the neat-swept road. “Yer welcome to join us,” he offers half-heartedly, thumbing in the direction of Gargiulo’s apartment. But the Governor shakes his head.

“Another time, perhaps. I have business to attend to.” Whatever business he and Milton conduct in the basement of the Governor’s house: the one place off limit to all Woodbury residents without any attempt at explanation. T-Dog forces a smile.

“Catch ya later than. Night, Governor.”

“Night, Theodore.”

And that’s that.

So why, as T-Dog starts his tramp in the opposite direction to the receding redneck, the Governor a tall pale obelisk between them, does he have to fight the urge to retrace his steps and offer the Governor’s turned-down place to Merle instead?

***

Merle sleeps like a log. Or rather, a rock – one that’s been tossed into the lake at the bottom of a quarry pit, sinking without a trace of buoyancy. He doesn’t get bad dreams. He ain’t kept up by gnawing ennui – or worse: a conscience. He just puts his head on the pillow and sleeps. It’s practically his defining trait, in a family as crude and dirty as his. If you wanna wake him, it’ll require several clashing saucepans, a few punches to the midriff, and at least one glass of water that’s been left in the fridge overnight to chill. However, with Daryl’s lone exception – because Merle ain’t giving up on him, not until the world fulfills his demand for _habeas corpus_ – all those other Dixons have long since passed: either eaten alive or disseminated into the ranks of shambling dead. And now Merle’s alone he finds that this factoid about himself, which he’d previously thought impervious to change, isn’t actually set in stone.

For the first time in his life, Merle Dixon can’t sleep.

He rolls from side to side. His narrow bunk still stinks of sickness and infected arm. It’s putrid and cloying, undercut by the sharp herbal aroma of Miltie’s healing gunk – a new pot of which had been sitting on the desk when he arrived. Now, Merle’s born country. He’s more than used to discomfort. Sticky heat, unpleasant aromas, the buzz of mosquitoes over his head: they’re the lullabies of any boondocks boy. What he’s not used to is the absence of a brother at his side. Or thoughts of T-Dog, intruding into the space in his mind he keeps reserved for models in men’s magazines.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

His senses are saturated by the big spearchucker, as if his essence has sunk into Merle’s very pores. He can smell him, feel him, taste the heady cocktail of breath and adrenaline that’d clogged his nose as they lay together in the car’s cramped footwell, walker-rot slicking their shirts together, sweat steaming in the humid air…

On their return, a quick trip to the local well had gotten Merle enough water to make a passable attempt at washing his face – at least, there’s more skin visible now than zombie slime. But it’ll take more than a splash to get Merle feeling clean again. Rubbing his fist over his gritty eyes, Merle swings his legs over the side of the bunk and assesses the moon through his window. Sleep’s out of the question; he’s too hot, too jittery, too darn horny and pissed off. Angry at Daryl for not being there at the farm, where Merle wanted him. Angry at T-Dog for being _exactly_ where Merle wanted him. And angry at himself, for enjoying himself in the company of anyone other than his brother.

Not _sexually_ of course. More like he's betrayed a friend. People always insinuated ugly shit about siblings from the sticks – even some of Merle’s own conquests, which earned ‘em a boot up the ass and an order to get out his house, presentable or otherwise. But at the end of the day, Merle ain’t accustomed to friends. He prefers to keep them who ain’t blood at a healthy arm’s length; makes it easier to cut ‘em lose, when the time comes. Acting chummy with T-Dog feels sacrilegious in hindsight, as if he’s betrayed Daryl’s memory.

…Or Daryl himself. Because Daryl’s still alive. That’s what he meant to say.

Merle screws his knuckles into his temple. He’s gotta get outta here. Can’t spend one more moment in this lil cell, pondering what might’ve become of his baby brother. Perhaps he oughta go check who’s on night watch. Make a quick patrol; keep ‘em on their toes. That’ll be one of his duties, once the Governor names him lieutenant.

Merle hops to his feet. He grabs the crusty wifebeater slung over the foot of his bed – and, after a moments thought, lashes the knife the governor has yet to reclaim to his waist. Never pays to be too careful; not when the dead are walking.

***

The wall’s visible from his window. Just a quick jog away – but Merle never makes that distance.

This’s because when he reaches the door of the empty house in which he’s been allocated a room – no doubt it’ll fill up as newcomers straggle into Woodbury, or some of those pretty window-washing dames get knocked up – he’s accosted by a five ten wall of black beef and a rich stink. He goes for the knife on instinct, before his olfactory senses inform him it’s not putrefaction he’s smelling but moonshine.

“Merle,” T-Dog slurs. A heavy arm loops over his shoulders. Whether he’s trying to reel Merle in to hug or use him as a crutch, Merle has no idea – and he doubts T-Dog does either. “Buddy. How are ya? Wash gonna ashk if ya wanted a drink.”

Merle glances at the empty bottle. “Looks like ya guzzled it before ya got the chance. Damn glutton.” He leans into the fumes from T-Dog’s mouth, inhaling deep and long. “Damn. Good stuff too. Asshole. And I sure hope you remember how ya called me ‘buddy’ in the mornin’, Mr Yo – cause I sure as heck ain’t letting ya live it down.” He takes a step, figuring T-Dog can tag. But the lack of support sends the big guy stumbling, crashing to his knees, the bottle narrowly avoiding smashing as his fingers flex in belated surprise.

Merle groans.

If there’d been any civilians about, he’d have continued his stroll. He’s got a reputation to uphold, after all. But there ain’t no one about – and who knows what sort of blackmail material an inebriated T-Dog will spill?

“C’mon, slugger,” he grumbles, hauling him to his feet. It takes considerable leverage – all of Merle’s body weight, combined with T-Dog’s bumbling efforts – but eventually he gets him standing. “Les’ getcha home.”

***

T-Dog turns out to be a giggly drunk. Ain’t what Merle would’ve pegged, but it’s better than angry or horny. Sure, he came out here in search of distraction, and he certainly wouldn’t mind a fight or a fuck – but the foremost brings with it the danger of getting them hauled out of Woodbury, and the latter will only become the former once morning rolls around. “Y’know,” T-Dog titters, suddenly distributing three quarters of his bodyweight onto Merle’s side. Merle, lacking a second hand to steady him, yaws out into the road and crashes into the nearest building. “You ain’t all that bad. I mean, for a racist redneck.”

“Yeah, you ain’t all that bad for a nigger neither.”

T-Dog clacks his stupid goofy teeth, he guffaws so hard. If Merle had a hand to spare he’d clap it over the big lug’s mouth. “I take it back if yer gonna call me that!” He belches, waving the bottle like a baton. Any last droplets smatter the tarmac. Merle bids them an internal adieu, and hopes that T-Dog repays his good deed of seeing him home by looting him a whole fucking crate of the stuff. No use being alive if you can’t get plastered. In lieu of meth, mysterious liquor is the best Merle's got.

“Awright, awright. Spearchucker it is. Now…” He leans to compensate as T-Dog trips over his grotty old trainers. “How’s about ya tell me why ya wanted me to come drinkin’ with ya? Ain’t as if we’re best friends. Heck, ya didn’t invite me in the first place!” Yeah, he doesn’t sound petulant. Not one bit. Thank fuck T-Dog’s too sloshed to notice. Merle angles him towards Wendy’s front door best as he can, nattering the whole way. “All I mean’s that ya can’t just go flip-floppin’ like that, spearchucker. Gotta stick to yer guns, else folk’ll start to think you swing every-which-way.”

No amount of drunkenness can disguise that double-entendre. Or so Merle hopes. The chance that T-Dog’s loitering in a closet of his own is mighty slim, and the chance that Merle’s signature mockery could lure him out of it thinner still. Fingers crossed he’ll be a black out drunk. If he doesn’t remember this conversation in the morning – well, it’ll be like it never happened. But at least Merle’ll get some closure. If it’s a nay, he can go back to beating off to some faceless bear who exists only in his mind’s eye – a white one, of course, because Merle has _taste_. If it’s a yay – highly unlikely – Merle can proposition T-Dog once they’re both good and sober, get his fuck, and be on his way. It’ll be a one-time thing. To sate his own curiosity, nothing more. Then it’s back to the routine rigmarole: work for the Governor, recover his strength, search for his baby brother.

Merle tells himself he doesn’t care about the outcome. Either way, ain’t as if he’s gonna fall for the idjit.

He needn’t have worried. T-Dog spurts another nasal giggle and collapses on Wendy’s doorframe. He pokes Merle’s shoulder, harder than intended, finger lingering too long on the seam between fabric and skin. “Yeah… You lecturin’ me about bein’ conshis… conshistent… _shtable_. Thash funny. Shpecially when you tan yer brother’s back, but search for him like he’s the lasht person on earth…”

Merle scrunches his nose. “Whas my brother got to do with –“ Then he realizes what T-Dog said. “’Tanned his back’. The fuck does that mean?” Under his vest, old scars twinge. Muscles cramp along his spine, tight as swollen flesh over a pimple, and phantom pain stabs his missing hand. “What d’you mean,” he repeats, balling his lone fist in the loose material under T-Dog’s chin. T-Dog just makes that infuriating laugh again, as if this is one big _joke_ , as if he ain’t just insinuated that Merle’s like his father.

Or worse. That the truth Merle’s fought not to acknowledge since he returned form the slammer to find Daryl sitting misty eyed over mam’s grave, black eye puffing one cheek, can no longer be ignored. Somewhere, deep down, Merle knows he failed at protecting his brother long before the dead rose from their graves – but that doesn’t mean he wants to acknowledge it. Even less have it rubbed in his face by some stupid _negro_ who don’t know nothing about blood…

“Daryl got scars?” he hisses. Slams T-Dog against the door hard enough to make the whole house quake. The alcohol on his breath mingles with the pure venom on Merle’s. “Where?”

T-Dog blinks, confused. He purses his lips, air whistling between his buckteeth. Merle wants to headbutt that dazed expression off his face. He wants to yell at him until he quits looking so gormless and answers the goddam question – but that’ll get him nowhere but in trouble, and he’ll endanger the whole town should a horde be passing nearby. Merle grits his teeth and waits.

Eventually, his words percolate T-Dog’s bloated brain-sac. “Back,” he mumbles, yawning wide enough to show off the back of his throat. “Beat with a belt, by my reckonin’. Fuck knowsh why yer ashkin though, if it wash you that put ‘em there –“

Merle shoves him to the floor. Looms over him, shoulders bunched furiously, eyes black as a demon’s against a night lit only by stars.

“What?” T-Dog complains, muzzily making to stand. Merle plants his boot on his chest, kicking him prone with such force his head rebounds off the door. Luckily, there’s no warble of “Theodore, is that you?” from the house’s upper echelons. The bang must not have been loud enough to disturb Wendy’s sleep. It’s more than enough to jar T-Dog from his drunken giddiness though.

“Ow! Merle, whatcha doin’ –“

Merle squats besides him. He begins a thorough patdown, digging through pocket after pocket until he brushes the serrated edge of what he’s searching for.

Perfect.

He tugs the housekey from T-Dog’s front pocket, booting him once more in the stomach for good measure. He’s too pillowy to be satisfying, but the blow still makes T-Dog _oof_ and clutch at his gut, as if afraid any more jostling will dredge the night’s booze ration from where it belongs. Merle backs out of range, holding his prize aloft.

“Remember this?” he singsongs. Crosses to one of Woodbury’s many disused drains, dry since the last rainstorm. The black chinks between the bars of the grill suck at Merle's vision, absorbing all light. In comparison, the bright metal key is positively brilliant: twinkling under the gleam of the silvery moon. T-Dog’s face creases, consternation and bewilderment. Then realization dawns.

“Merle… Merle, don’t… Ish the only one I got…”

“This is Woodbury,” Merle reminds him cheerfully. His smirk is wide and wolfish. He pinches the key by its neck, by its teeth, by its tip, spinning it between his fingers like a card in a casino. “Ain’t no crime here to worry about. Only me, comin’ to make ya pay for that comment about my brother. Which I will be doin’. You better sleep with one eye open, Spearchucker – cause I’mma gouge it out if I get the chance.”

He drops the key.

It clinks off the drain cover, T-Dog following its shimmering bounce. Then it clatters through. The atmosphere’s too gloomy for Merle to watch its descent. Instead, he waits for the metallic chime as it strikes the dry bottom – then flips T-Dog a heartfelt bird and stalks into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I'm sorry this has been so long! I tend to fall out of fandoms then randomly pop back into them again - but I do honestly love this fic and this pairing, rare as it is, so I'm going to make an effort to keep slogging away at this story.**
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> ****


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which bonds are repaired. Sort of.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CN: Regular use of the N-word. Merle's potty-mouth in general. I keep saying he'll stop using that word, but he's a dick. I'm sorry.**

Next day’s a Sunday.

T-Dog’s a religious man; always has been, always will be. He’s so theologically-minded that he doesn’t ponder the respective merits of staying on the doorstep and sleeping off the hangover, rather than slogging his bleary-eyed, foul-tasting-mouthed way to the squat building on the town’s far west flank, which operates both as schoolroom and church. Or at least, he doesn’t ponder them for long.

He can’t remember how he got home. Can’t remember what happened to leave him with such a curious sense of frustration and gloom either. He hopes he didn’t get in a fight with Gargiulo; the kid’s a veritable font of sex-jokes and moonshine, and his companionship’s appreciated when T-Dog wants to get shitfaced. He certainly can’t remember what happened to his key. And that means his chances of changing into a fresh shirt are nil.

Or rather, the freshest shirt he owns. It’s washed once a week in the communal laundry pot, which was once a blow-up swimming pool. Water from the well – or the river, if they have enough men to guard a bucket-lugging party – pours in until the plastic bottom swims beneath a six inch thick layer. Then the town’s essential garments are dumped off and stomped with washing up liquid until the sweat and grime froths from their fabric.

T-Dog entertains a hope that Merle will be allocated to that duty, although he knows it’s unlikely. Man’s a fighter, through and through. As fun as it’d be to see him griping and bitching as he trod dirty underwear clean, T-Dog would rather he was up on the walls where he belonged, pegging walkers from afar.

…Or not. How would Merle balance a sniper rifle with only one arm? And why’s T-Dog thinking about Merle when he should be getting to church?

T-Dog shakes his head – then regrets it. Cringing, he squeezes his temples until the dehydrated ache diminishes. Church begins at ten. Judging by the position of the sun, it ain’t yet nine, and Wendy won’t be up until at least nine-thirty. T-Dog doesn’t want to bang on the door and wake her. He figures he might as well head for the well, splash water onto his face and in his mouth, and make himself as presentable as possible. So imagine his surprise when he leans on the handle and the door swings open.

***

Merle ain’t one for avoiding folks. He got beef with you? He’ll storm over and shove a fist into your jaw, occasionally with a bikechain wrapped around it. He’s even less of one for _talking through his problems_. In his nearing-fifty years of experience he’s learnt that there’s few difficulties in this world that can’t be solved by beating your opponent until they can’t stand.

But occasionally even a Dixon has to draw a line. Kicking the ass of a teacher before his class is one of ‘em. Fuck knows what’d happen if the brats lost their respect for T-Dog – knowing the Governor’s brand of sadism, Merle’d probably wind up taking the class himself. Which is a load of horseshit, because Merle quit school when he was fifteen, and he ain’t never regretted it.

Really, thinks Merle, chin leant on forearm as he glowers at T-Dog’s shaved skull from his window vantage. He should’ve had his revenge while there were still hours in the weekend. Don’t wanna fuck these lil’ bastards up by butchering their precious fat negro in front of ‘em…

No wait. _Nigger_. T-Dog ain’t worth the effort it takes for Merle to curb his tongue.

All in all though, as much as it frustrates Merle, perhaps this stagnant situation is for the best. Gives him time to calculate his actions, rather than just march over and _do_ them, and let the waves of havoc wreaked in their wake crash over him in anarchic abandon. So, let’s think about this chronologically.

Merle kills T-Dog.

Governor finds out (because he undoubtedly will; no matter how Merle stages it, he’s always gonna be primary suspect.)

Governor weighs up whether it’s more important to dispense justice and assert his authority, or pander to the needs of his battle-trained lieutenant and allow the cold-blooded execution of Woodbury’s only schoolteacher.

Governor invariably decides on the former.

Merle exits Woodbury, either as a stiff cadaver or a not-so-stiff walker: either way brotherless and dead.

Survey says: shit idea. No point dwelling on it further. With the speed of a born pragmatist, Merle launches onto the next.

What if he only _maims_ him? Y’know, just a lil’. Enough to make him sorry he ever insinuated – or worse, _believed_ – that Merle shared a likeness with his father. (Of course, T-Dog never said anything of the sort. Not _explicitly_. Given that he’s never had the dubious pleasure of meeting Dixon Senior, he has no point of reference from which to make the comparison. But Merle’s electing to ignore that. At the end of the day, anger is easier to manifest than understanding, or self-reflection. Because T-Dog’s first impression of him had been a meth-fuelled crazy redneck shooting wild potshots off a baking Atlanta roof, too high to feel the heat or fear the danger. No wonder he looks at him like he’s a walking hazard.)

Yeah, thinks Merle as T-Dog gathers his herd of brats and makes a passable attempt at distinguishing the mushrooms growing at the end of the churchyard from their poisonous woodland counterpoints. Maiming’s the way to go.

***

No sooner has T-Dog waved away Josie and her brother then Merle slinks from the shadows of the half-derelict house opposite. T-Dog greets him with a chirpy smile, still in school-teacher mode. “Sup, Dixon? You need something? Oh – hey. What’chu doin’, why’re you…”

Merle punches him in the face. T-Dog flinches to one side, letting the hard-balled fist scrape his cheek rather than crush it, and tosses a bewildered hook in automatic retaliation. Merle blocks with his stump-arm, not bothering to dodge.

He’s fully on the offensive. Had T-Dog not known better, he’d never have guessed the man had been on bedrest not a fortnight before. Merle’s always brimming with energy, whether he’s tweaking or sober. Usually it’s boisterous and bright, reminding T-Dog of the crackle of sparks from a Catherine wheel. But at times like this it hones into something cold-forged and focussed, jabbing at T-Dog with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel. This isn’t an exuberant show of pseudo-violent masculine bonding, or an attempt to get T-Dog’s attention. It’s an attack. And it’s damn terrifying in its intensity.

No time to suck extra air for talking. He needs to make space, get Dixon away from him… T-Dog kicks out at random, landing a lucky blow on Merle’s knee. He stumbles away while the man hops and snarls, cradling his punch-bruised gut and jaw. The tender skin around his eye is puffing already from where Merle cracked him over the bridge of the nose. That’s gonna make a beautiful shiner, just in time for class tomorrow. “Fuck, Dixon!” he roars from the other end of the churchyard. “The fuck you thinkin’? The fuck did I do to you?”

“You know what’chu did, dumbass _nigger_! Insult like that, there’s gotta be an answer!”

The slur bites harder than usual. After their walker-gutting venture at the farm, T-Dog had hoped they were past that. It hurts to admit it, but he’s disappointed. Disappointed like he is when one of his kids doesn’t study for a test, then complains about their slumping grade. If Merle retracts his more cordial attitude whenever he’s pissed off – pissed off like he is right now; face bright red, eyes scrunched and shrewish, lips pulled back from his spit-flecked teeth? Well, he obviously never meant it in the first place.

“Insult like what?” he asks. Then freezes. He hasn’t seen Merle since they staggered out the car two nights ago. At least, not that he remembers. If he did something to aggravate the redneck in the meantime, it must’ve happened while T-Dog was blackout drunk.

Groaning, he drops into a squat and buries his head in his hands. Merle, confused at the sudden dissolution of T-Dog’s defensive posture, pads a little closer, fists still raised. “What’chu doin’ down there, boy? Stand up and fight!”

“This is about something I said while sloshed. Ain’t it?”

Merle’s eyes thin further, confirming T-Dog’s suspicions before he even opens his mouth. “Damn right it is. An’ before ya can say ya _didn’t mean it_ , I know damn well what a drunk truth sounds like. That were one of ‘em. Now stand up, so ya can face the consequences.”

T-Dog doesn’t rise as prompted. Right now, it seems that would just spur Merle to violence. He stays low, stirring grumpily at the sundried grass-stalks with a plump brown finger. “At least tell me what I did? I remember fuck-all. Did I – I dunno, smack your ass or something?” Merle freezes. Jackpot. T-Dog groans in heartfelt self-aimed irritation, and thunks his forehead off his palm. “Damn. M’sorry, man. Forget not everyone’s used to partying with footballers – we all tend to get a lil’ handsy after a match when we’re pissed; don’t mean nothin’ by it. No homo, y'know?”

“It wasn’t that,” Merle blurts. It sounds strangled, although if he’s telling the truth, T-Dog can’t fathom why. Is he so much of a redneck jackass that even the _thought_ of ass-slaps in the locker room make him clamp up? Unimpressed, T-Dog cocks an eyebrow.

“Then what? This here’s Woodbury, y’know. We don’t sentence folks without telling them their crime.”

The wrathful flush in Merle’s cheeks wanes from four hundred to two hundred lumens. It no longer feels like T-Dog’s looking up at a stoplight. Hell, if T-Dog loves his skintone, a fair half of it’s because he wouldn’t turn that shade of lobster even if he lay out in the sun for a week. “You said I smacked my baby brother about,” he says woodenly. “You said I scarred his back.”

Well, T-Dog wasn’t expecting _that._ Of all things Merle Dixon could’ve taken offence to…

“You mean you didn’t?”

The next thing he sees is a fist rushing for his nose.

***

Merle smacks the back of his head. “Keep it tilted _forwards,_ dumbass. Don’t wanna be swallowing a gutful of blood. Trust me, you’ll puke for a week.”

“Why’re you helbpin’ me?” T-Dog holds his nasal cartilage in the hope it’ll realign of its own accord. “Yer da one dat hidt me in da firdst bplace!”

Merle’s scoff tells him what he thinks of that. “Wassa love tap. Ain’t my fault yer stupid nigger-nose broke. Ain’t like it can get much flatter anyway, so I don’t see what’cher complainin’ bout…” T-Dog glares at him, blood dripping from between his fingers to add to the stew of dust and damp-rot obscuring the floorboards of Woodbury’s newest reclaimed residence. “What?”

“Enough wit’ da ‘nigger’ Merle. Seriously.”

“Oh, so _you_ get to say it, huh –“

“Don’dt eben go dere.”

Surprisingly, rather than launching into an old-school rendition of ‘eenie-meenie-miney-moe’ just to annoy him, Merle complies. He slumps on the stairs that lead up to his crummy apartment, crossing his arm and stump over his grey-stained wifebeater. “D’you still think it?” he asks, glowering up at T-Dog, who’s gotten through what is possibly the last pack of tissues in the civilized world and is doing everything he can not to bleed on one of his three remaining shirts.

“Thingk whad?”

“That I hit Daryl. That I gave him them…” He waves uselessly at the air, furious gaze splintering into something terrified and helpless, for the brief second it takes for him to choke out the word: “…Scars.”

That vulnerability’s gone as soon as it appears. Merle lounges against the rickety bannister like a king at coronation, glare potent as ever while he waits on T-Dog’s reply. T-Dog struggles between denying the accusation to appease him, and telling the truth – that he’s still unconvinced. Because first time he’d met Merle, the man had been high out of his own skull. Even if he doesn’t remember pulping his poor brother, last night’s proof enough the drugs fuck with your mind.

“I don’t know,” he says eventually. He keeps his tone flat – flat as it can be, with nostrils bunged with clotting blood. Merle has to learn that his actions have consequences; that his punch-happy lifestyle and yodelling over every deemed insult reduce his chances of ever being accepted into Woodbury. If it takes T-Dog being honest to teach him that (and accruing himself another black-eye in the bargain)? So be it.

Suffice to say, his lesson isn’t successful. Merle’s eyes are inflammable embers. They remind T-Dog of Centralia: that smoke-fuzzed ghost town whose mining fires will outlive T-Dog and quite possibly the whole of the human race. They’re always smoldering, sometimes raging. At T-Dog’s words they burst to life once more. He shuts his own on instinct, expecting another blow – then squeezes them open a sliver when none arrives.

Merle’s staring at his fists like they’ve done him personal injustice. Then slowly, they unclench. “I didn’t,” he mutters. “I didn’t, I swear…” He toys with the hem of his vest, plucking it from his sweaty skin as if he’s considering shirking it all together.

T-Dog tilts his head. Is the man high? No; his pupils are normal sized. Shrunken from adrenaline, if anything. “Whad you doin’?” he asks as Merle plays with that tattered seam, counting the strings that crisscross the laddered holes. “Merle?”

Merle drops the edge of the vest, letting it fall back over the strip of firm stomach. “What.”

T-Dog swallows, tasting copper and brine. “You… I dunno, okay?” Kinda stupid to be asking this of the guy who busted his nose. But in that moment, he could’ve almost mistaken Merle for someone who’d appreciate that question, as opposed to what he is: a foul-mouthed dirty woodsman who’s barely house-trained for all his harping about racial supremacy, let alone _civilized_.

Sure enough, Merle answers his concern with a middle finger. “Fuck off, Mr Yo. You an’ me’re done for now. If ya don’t wanna take my word on my brother, ya might as well get outta my sight before I beat it into ya.”

That’s not a threat T-Dog takes lightly. Still pinching his nose, he staggers for the door – then remembers how his meagre security has been breached. “Hey. Was it you thad sdole my key?”

Merle smirks, light breaking across his grizzled face through the filthy windowpane. “Whassit to ya, spearchucker?”

“Can I hab it back?”

“You stupid or suicidal?”

T-Dog sighs. “Nodt for me. For Wendy. I can’d be in the house all the time, nodt wid school an’ church an’ wall-patrols. She gedts scared if she can’d logk the door ad nighdt…”

“You think I give two shits about your wrinkled piece of pussy?”

Insulting him’s one thing; being rude about Wendy’s quite another. T-Dog draws himself to his full height, the extra inch he has on Merle all the more impressive given the man’s currently crouched in the stairwell like a cat considering pouncing. “Don’ talk aboudt her like dat,” he says imperiously. Merle rolls his eyes.

“What’chu gonna do about it, huh? Defend her honor?” He’d probably enjoy that. T-Dog recognizes the magma bubbling below his crust; Merle’s still spoiling for a fight. But T-Dog won't be the one to give it to him.

“I ain’dt throwin’ da firsdt punch, Merle,” he calls over his shoulder as he stomps for the door. “You’re da only one sdtarting shidt here. And if ya don’dt change your ways, there ain’dt gonna be a place here for you _or_ your brother. Bear dat in mind!”

He’s still pissed off when he clomps up the stairs and falls belly-first onto his bed. Wendy had taken one look at his nose and gone off to fetch frozen peas, forgetting that fridges don’t work anymore and all edible produce is stocked in the communal foodbank. She’ll be doddering around the house until she realizes, and by then she’ll have forgotten why she was looking for them in the first place; bless her heart.

T-Dog’s frustration always seems to bud around the person of Merle Dixon. It’s not surprising. He’d mourned his death – if only because it’d been his fault – only to have him swan back into his life not a year later, minus one arm and several milligrams of meth, but plus a new collection of layers that T-Dog doesn’t want to peel back in case he finds someone other than an abusive jackass lurking beneath.

Why can’t Merle stay hateable? Why’s he gotta make things _difficult?_

T-Dog snorts. Look at himself. Acting like life ain’t screwy and stupid and all kinds of backwards. Of course Merle’s complex and crazy – look at the damn world they live in! It’s a wonder they ain’t all cracked months ago.

There’s a muffled cuss from outside. T-Dog would usually elect to ignore it. Most in Woodbury have become accustomed to one another’s rough-hewn edges; so long as folks keep their volume to a level that won’t draw herds, there’s rarely altercations over swearing on the streets. But this cuss is made in an unmistakable gruff voice. It’s followed by several more that would be inventive even by a sailor’s standards.

Think of the devil, and he’ll appear. Where does Merle get off, booting T-Dog out of his apartment then following him to his own?

T-Dog rolls on his clumpy old mattress, turning from the books lining Wendy’s walls to the bright white rectangle of the window. He throws up a hand to shield himself from the blazing afternoon sun, and creaks to sit – copping a wonderful view of Merle: ass-up with his head and shoulders stuffed down a manhole.

The storm drains are only really of use in the winter. It’s so dry here that the sewers must be arid as the sun-bleached bones that gather in indistinguishable piles by the side of the roads, human and animal alike. T-Dog, squinting at the scene a fair while longer than necessary – because of the oddity, of course – shakes his head and drops back on the bed.

Who knows what Merle’s up to? Honestly, it’s best for T-Dog’s sanity if he doesn’t try and puzzle it out.

Not five minutes later there’s a knock at the door. T-Dog hears Wendy warble “Coming!” from the kitchen, and almost garrotes himself with the bedsheet in his desperation to thunder down the stairs. God knows he doesn’t want her answering to Merle, not while the man’s in this mood…

By the time he gets there, Merle’s long gone. T-Dog glances left and right, expecting a sneak attack. He spies a figure sloping off into the lengthening shadows between the buildings opposite. It’s of Merle’s height and build – confirmed when it raises a one-fingered salute without bothering to look back. T-Dog relaxes. Sure, Merle enacting a knock-and-run is weird, but T-Dog’ll take that over assault and battery any day.

It’s as he’s preparing to shut the door that Wendy completes her passage from the adjacent room. She peeps under his arm, bringing with her an aromatic waft of old-lady perfume.

“What’s that?” she asks, pointing. And T-Dog looks down at the sole occupant of his doorstep: a grubby but familiar key, its golden brass glinting through the grime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Leave me comments! They really brighten my day, and give me motivation to slog away at the next chapter. :3**


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Merle wants a gladiator match and gets a job.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sorry this is late! I'm juggling fifteen billion fics at once, as usual. I'm gonna try and update that filthy Rixons fic sometime this week too, so look forwards to that~ ;)**

“We need some sport round here before we go fuckin' nuts. I mean sure, whole world is, so why not roll with it?”

“Hello Merle,” says the Governor. He walks into his office, where Merle perches on his desk like an overgrown gargoyle. Merle sneers, amplifying the resemblance. “Not one for small-talk. Right. Well, my public hours are officially nine-to-five, but as you’re here already, I might as well hear you out. What kind of sport?”

Merle, for all that he’s willing to play the trailer-trash idjit when it’ll lull folks into underestimating him, isn’t actually as stupid as he pretends. He’s though this through. “I mean, I been stuck mopin’ about the place like a wet damn noodle cause you say I ain’t well enough to lead a patrol.”

“You’re still supposed to be on bedrest.” The Governor walks around Merle, setting his scribble-clotted papers on the desk beside him; Merle squints at them, but they’re upside down and all in Milton’s dense-packed handwriting, and he was never the highest scored reader in class. He sinks into his chair with a world-weary sigh, nudging his papers so they crinkle against Merle’s thigh – a subtle hint that he’d appreciate having his workplace freed. Merle delights in ignoring him.

“What I’m sayin’ is, I’m so bored I wanna tear down a wall and let the biters in just for some fun. You get me?” He sees the Governor’s eyes flick for his knife. Pauses just long enough to make him tense, before cracking a bright grin. “Not that I _would_ , of course.”

“That’s a relief.” The Governor’s deadpan expression doesn’t waver. “However, I doubt the majority of Woodbury’s civilians are as… energetic as you.”

“Destructive, ya mean.” Merle yawns, showing off his canines. The stump he throws up, an homage to good manners, does little to cover them. “And while ya might think that, lemme tell ya that people’re savages in nature. Ya can bandy about with this sweet lil’ homestead-nonsense all you like, but at the end of the day, yer playin’ make believe and we all know it. What’s out there…” He points for the wall: a grim black-and-grey barrier that bisects their world. “Thas’ just humanity undiluted. All men need an outlet. Killin’ biters is good an’ all, but think of all the poor sods left sittin’ in front of empty TV screens all day. They ain’t got no way to get their own back on this world for fuckin’ ‘em over and leaving ‘em alone.”

“What you’re saying,” says the Governor, “is that people require circuses as well as bread.” He’s unperturbed by Merle’s closeness – who swings himself round on the desk side-saddle, scrunching those papers under his thighs, so he can loom in closer and get in the Governor’s face. Merle has no idea what he’s talking about – whether he’s quoting his precious _Fuck-oh_ or what. But he gets the gist.

“S’right, bossman. I’m thinkin’ we drag some geeks in here, set up an internal perimeter, and let your lil’ civvies watch as we beat ‘em down.”

The Governor’s face, which had until now been vaguely receptive in its usual elastic fashion, assuming the shapes of whatever expression he wanted to emulate, now takes a swift turn for the sour. “Those ‘geeks’ are still people, Merle. Friends. Family. What if we were to bring back your brother?”

Then he’d kill everyone he could, followed swiftly by himself.

“I’ll deal with that when I get to it,” Merle says, false-jovial. Governor’s trying to unsettle him. Get a rise, make him feel like he ain’t the toughest, meanest, nastiest motherfucker in the room. Like hell will Merle surrender that easy. “It’d be damn good trainin’, and a spectacle to boot. Let the young’uns you wanna toughen up for wall-duty battle ‘em with restrictions – muzzles on, arms removed an’ the like. Me and the other top dogs? We can take ‘em hand-to-hand.”

The Governor frowns. “I don’t wish to traumatize my people, Merle.”

It’s the retort Merle’s been waiting on. He sneers, crinkling the files further as he scoots over the desktop to jab a finger in the Governor’s face. Sitting like this, he’s got one boot propped on either arm of the Governor’s chair. It’s as overt a display of dominance as Merle’s ever made outside the bedroom, and he cinches the comparison further as he leans in to let the Governor smell his breath.

“Well, p’raps you should. Ain’t all sunshine and roses out there. It’s hell, plain an’ simple – and if ya don’t want ‘em to fall victim to it, they gotta know how to fight. No place for pansies anymore. Not outside of these walls.”

The ensuing stare-down would’ve gotten Merle all hot and bothered under the collar, were it with anyone with more emotional depth than a dead fish. The Governor assesses him coldly and clinically, as if he’s dissecting him strip by strip. Merle, in contrast, is all fiery intransigence: jutting his jaw and holding his ground.

The Governor is first to blink. But it doesn’t feel like Merle’s won the contest. Only that he’s been dismissed, as usual. “I’ll consider your proposal,” the man says. Eyes the thighs boxing him into his chair with arch disinterest. “Now please, Merle. As delightful as your company is, I must insist that you relinquish my desk. I do have reports to be reading.”

“Reports,” says Merle flatly. “After the end of the world.”

The Governor’s lips quirk. “Well, of course. This is humanity’s last known idyll, Merle – and I’m willing to maintain every part of it, even the paperwork.”

Creep. Anyone who willingly churns out filing of this magnitude must be evil. Merle shudders, but does as he’s bid. He twists in a burst of energy, animal and lithe, and hops from the desk. “Y’know I’m right,” is his parting shot as he boots open the door. “Might as well hurry up an’ admit it.”

***

As he’s declared his intention to stay, Merle requires a job. As Merle is still, in Milton’s words, _recovering_ , he’s barred from anything involving guns, knives, or fists.

Bullshit, in his book. He feels fine. Better than he has in a long time – not the artificial goodness from a bag of crystal, but actual, bona-fide _strength._ Merle could take on the world. Or burn it down, if he so chose. He could vault the gates, steal a car and as much gas as he could pack in its trunk, then go trawling the countryside for his brother. He could proposition every damn cock-bearing bugger in this town until he finds one amenable to a fuck. Anything to get this restless antsiness outta his head…

An honest day’s work might be the medicine he needs.

Merle’s the proud owner of a varied career record. From bouncing at a club to barman, shelf-stacker, mechanic, janitor and soldier, he’s done everything under the sun. Heck, couple of times when he was really tweaking, he remembers sucking guys off in exchange for a line – not that that occupation’s ever held pride of place on his CV. He doesn’t know what he expects to be allocated, as he slopes to the central assignation post – i.e., the Governor’s house – next morning. It sure ain’t laundry duty. Still, who’s Merle to complain? He could be mucking out the compost shitters.

The Governor smiles to see him there. His people-pleasing face is firmly plastered over the soulless automaton that lurks beneath.

“You think about my idea?” Merle hollers, over the heads of the civilians bickering about whether they wanna scrub windows or pick vegetables from the communal allotments. The Governor’s beam refuses to fade, as if it’s been drawn on his mug with sharpie.

“We’ll talk this evening,” he answers. And then Merle’s team of fellow launderers are hustled off, led by the negress Merle spotted on his first morning. The first morning he spent cognisant, at least. Television has taught him that she has all the right curves in all the right places. As he saunters along behind her, watching her yellow daisy-patterned dress flutter up her long, long legs in the breeze, he wonders whether T-Dog’s ever fucked her. Then quashes the abrupt and nonsensical flare of jealousy, and focuses on the task at hand.

Outwardly it’s easy as pie. You sluice off the worst of the grit, grime, and walker-gunk with the leftovers from the last session. Then dump your load in, refill, and hop about like a demented rabbit until you’ve got ‘em clean. If they’re more manky than the norm, you can scrape ‘em with this old-fashioned cheese-grater-like wooden contraption that must’ve been liberated from the Governor’s kinky underground sex-dungeon (which is Merle’s working-theory for where the man spends his nights). The Negress, Naomi, warns them to only use it as a last resort; they have a finite garment supply and the clothes won’t stand up to repeated vigorous scrubbing. Finally, all washing is dredged out of the soapy mass and hung up to flap and dry in the Georgia sun.

Merle listens. He learns. He absorbs all necessary information and discards the rest, and sneers at his companions as they nod and simper and take up their posts. They act like their task is as vital to Woodbury’s continued existence as the guarding of the gates. Who knows? Maybe in their demented, pseudo-civilized worldview, it is. Doesn’t mean Merle’s gotta agree. At the end of the day, laundry’s a job fit only for dames.

But when the only other male on the washing crew voices this, Naomi promptly directs him to the blokes’ underwear. Merle decides to keep his opinions on the matter to himself. Sure, sifting through the townspeople’s boxers doesn’t sound much of a chore. But the only other embarrassing items left to be cleansed are women’s panties and brassieres, neither of which hold much interest. He volunteers for stomping duty instead. At least that way he gets to channel his frustration by pounding _something_ to pulp, even if it’s just t-shirts. He grits his teeth as he strips, bundling heavy combat boots and jeans to one side. He’s getting better at popping a button and a fly one-handed. No one offers to help, and Merle wouldn’t accept it if they did, but he considers it a victory that he’s down to underwear and wifebeater in under a minute.

His boxers ain’t the cleanest, but they don’t have any holes – at least, not in untoward places – so he figures his audience can suck it up. It’s damn hot outside, and he doesn’t fancy tramping about in damp pants for the rest of the day. Following his example – conducted in silence, and with minimal leering – the ladies disrobe too. Just a little; this and that, nothing too revealing. But they watch him and the other guy as if they expect to be mauled, fresh meat dangled before tigers.

They’re gonna be disappointed. This tiger’s vegetarian.

Merle’s still sure to check them out, as they climb the ladder and down the other side. There’s a range of body-types and ages; the sprightly young things have tied their shirts under their tits in makeshift bikinis and rolled their leggings up their calves, while the older and the plumper practice the same actions to lesser effect. Catching the other guy’s eye, Merle delivers a whopper of a wink. He makes sure Naomi sees it too. She thins her glare in a way that suggests he’d better keep his remaining hand to himself if he wants to keep it.

The flirtation is a balancing act, one Merle’s perfected over the years. A smirk here. A sneaky peek down cleavage there. A short admiring whistle when one of the older birds, tramping between the pool and the scrubbing station, slips on the wet grass and lands ass-up – then a return of the middle finger she shoots him. The women get the message. They cluster in the opposite corner of the pool, sharing gossip as they tread the clothes clean, and Merle gets to stamp about without having to worry about anyone whinging cause he’s splashed them and ruined their hair.

Some are dimmer than others, however.

She sidles over with hips asway, a snake to an unimpressed charmer. Her toes grip the pool’s plastic bottom, one hand on the rim to prevent her taking a second tumble. “Hey. It’s hot as the devil’s armpit. Why don’t you take your shirt off too, sweetie?”

Merle glances the length of the grungy back yard they’ve set up shop in. The other guy’s done just that. He’s nothing special to look at – a bit scrawny for Merle’s liking. Call him thirsty though, cause Merle’s still very much like to climb aboard and have himself a ride. He darts his gaze away before he can be accused of staring.

“Ain’t that hot yet,” he says, flashing her his crudest grin. It’s the one that makes mothers clutch their daughters, grandmas their pearls, and papas their shotguns. “You could always warm me up a bit though, darlin’. What’s yer name?”

“Shona.” Vowels drawled out, even by Merle’s standards. Huh. Apparently he ain’t the only one who hasn’t gone so long without cock since elementary school. The woman comes closer still, pushing out her sunburnt chest. She crowds Merle against the flimsy plastic wall of the pool under the pretense of helping him tread the suds from a particularly grungy flannel shirt. She’s around his age, which makes this less awkward. A little saggy at the edges but pleasant enough to look at. There’s freckles dappling her shoulders, divided by the tan lines from her strappy top, and grey streaks stand out in her ginger hair. “I’ll get you _boiling_ , hun…”

It’s around this point that Merle usually starts berating his idiot mouth and has to scramble to excuse himself from the situation while still salvaging his rep. The best course of action is to look for a distraction.

“T-Dog!” he calls, breaking away from Shona’s amorous advance. He sploshes through her goosey gaggle of friends – all of whom dart from his path, reforming at his back like a shoal around a shark. “Hey man! C’mere! Lend a hand – or a foot.” T-Dog, who must have better things to do on the kids’ lunch break than come get soapy with a redneck, nonetheless turns in his direction. Merle tells himself it’s personal, rather than because of the bare woman-flesh behind him. “C’mon in,” he urges, beckoning with a dirty grin. “The water’s fine.”

***

“Just five minutes.”

“Thank me when yer soaked through. Damn nice, in this weather. Now c’mon down here an’ add more sausage to this party.” Shona’s watching him, which makes Merle uncomfortable. And when Merle’s uncomfortable, any filter between brain and tongue disintegrates. Luckily T-Dog’s more than used to that. He splashes into the pool next to him, brown and burly and broad, looking delectably self-conscious. Whether this is over his boxers, which are in a state of disrepair almost paralleling Merle’s own, or his belly, which drapes over the waistband, Merle doesn’t know – not that he’s been checking him out.

T-Dog is, of course, oblivious. He nods to Merle’s shirt.

“Ain’t ya takin’ that off?”

Merle doesn’t let folks see his back. Not his conquests, not his drinking and smoking buddies, and not his little brother neither, if he can help it. T-Dog definitely doesn’t make the cut.

“Why?” he asks, ignoring how Shona’s got her head cocked to one side, treading soap through her patch of laundry in a contemplative riverdance. “You wanna see some of ol’ Merle?” T-Dog shoots him an incredulous look which says _you almost crash the car because you think I’m staring at you, but then you say something like that in front of an audience?_ Merle hastily corrects himself. “Careful, spearchucker. Someone might think yer goin’ full faggot.”

T-Dog wedges his arms over his belly in a stern cross. His big dark belly. Damn, but Merle wants that weight on his back again. “Hilarious.”

Merle shrugs. “Hey, the other answer involves that word ya don’t like me usin’.”

“Which one? There’s a list.”

Does he have to spell it out? “Y’know the one.”

“Nigger.” A few of the woman jump, Shona not included. The younger girls glance at Naomi, who’s supervising from her centerfield position; they’re reassured when they find her already observing the situation with eyes as cold and careful as a sniper scope. She might not be no soldier, but Merle still gets the feeling she could hold her own. Not against him, perhaps, but maybe versus a minor horde or two. He hopes he gets to see her in action one day.

For now though, Merle ain’t looking for a fight. He smacks his shoulder off T-Dog’s. The big lug’s neck unstiffens slowly, like tension unwinding from a spring, and Merle relishes the heat of skin on his for the briefest moment before propriety demands that he pull away. Say what you might about those of a darker hue, but they sure absorb warmth nicely. Not that Merle needs _more_ scorching, on top of the sun that’s already beating down on him from above and frazzling his Irish complexion like bacon fat left in the fryer. But for whatever the reason, as soon as there’s cool water between him and T-Dog, he misses his touch.

Back to the matter at hand. “I _still_ don’t get why you can say it…”

T-Dog grouchily kneads water through a child-sized nightgown. Probably belongs to that wee ginger lass in his class – Merle wonders if she’s related to Shona. “Ain’t gonna explain, Merle. Not when ya wouldn’t listen. For now, why don’t you use that brain ya claim to have and figure out a way to say what you wanna _without_ it? Like: ‘it’s because I burn easy, and you don’t ‘cause you’re black.’ There. Simple.”

Simple? The truth behind Merle’s everpresent wifebeater is anything but. Merle snorts, kicking at him. The resultant splash is small enough that he can pass it off as accidental; T-Dog bears the slap on his shins without complaint. “You still in teacher mode, Mr Yo? Should I call ya ‘sir’?”

“Be my guest.” More water comes flying his way. Significantly more. T-Dog splutters. “Hey! What the hell, Merle?”

Merle, holding another glistening cupped handful, smirks and upends it over T-Dog’s head.

“Boys!” Naomi rushes over before T-Dog can retaliate. “No fighting in the pool. You wanna wrestle, you do it after we load the next dirty batch in. Might as well get some use out of you. Deal?”

And sure, Merle didn’t come here in search of confrontation. But as usual where T-Dog’s concerned, he has an uncanny knack of finding one. He’s at a serious scooping disadvantage, being down a hand. Regardless, he’s assured in his victory. “Whaddaya say?” he asks T-Dog. T-Dog’s grin bleeds white across his face as Merle finishes his challenge: “You an’ me. _Mano el-fuckin’ mano_. Here an’ now.”

T-Dog still bandies excuses – of course; they’re practically second nature to the man. “My class… I only got an hour for lunch. Can’t go traipsin’ in with a black eye either.” He grimaces. “Already done that once, thanks to you.” Merle stifles the urge to make a ‘both yer eyes are black’ quip. He lifts each foot, one after the other, and dismissively flicks drops from his toes.

“We’re nearly done with this batch, ain’t we girls? Won’t take us a minute.”

Naomi nods. “You can start slopping the clean stuff out now, if you want.” And if the girls all gather round the pool edge to spectate, Shona chief amongst them – well. That only proves Merle’s point to the Governor. What was that poncy phrase he’d spouted? Sounded like something off the back of a cereal box.

“Bread an’ circuses,” Merle mutters to himself, water trickling through the stubble on his chin. He rounds off against T-Dog, lone hand clenched into a fist. “Bread an’ goddam circuses.”

***

Their flesh glides together, slippery as sealskin. For Merle, it’s as exhilarating as it’s tantalizing. As for T-Dog... Well, who knows what T-Dog’s thinking?

Is he enjoying himself? Is he desperate to hurry back to his class, knowing that the cumulative attention span of twenty five-to-eleven year olds isn’t enough to withstand fifteen minutes of his absence? Whatever the processes churning behind his domed dark forehead, none are voiced. There’s little time to choke out more than grunts as they slide back and forth, grappling and locking and grappling again.

The water muddies rapidly. Clothes squelch and suck at hands and feet, swirling around them like seaweed tendrils or swamp-snakes. Merle dunks T-Dog’s head for a glorious second. The victory’s as gleeful as it’s short-lived. T-Dog worms a wet arm between his legs and – _oh fuck_ – hauls him over his shoulders. He deposits him flat on his back: a move better suited to a Judo blackbelt than a footballer.

“Oof,” says Merle. Or tries to.

Water floods in: nose, mouth, ears, everywhere. Sour with soap and dirt and other folks’ sweat. He claws at the surface. Nails card liquid as if they can shred it, mind blank with panic – then he remembers that the pool is only a foot deep. Like hell will he drown in such a pathetic fashion.

He flails upwards, coughing and spluttering, shaking his head to clear it dog-style. It takes a precious second to dredge his skull to a level where it doesn’t gurgle whenever he moves. T-Dog doesn’t take advantage – this is a friendly match by their standards. In fact, by the time Merle’s tapped off half the pint that’s sloshing about inside his brainpan, T-Dog’s still chortling.

That soon stops. Merle growls and launches himself like a shot-put. His wifebeater clings to him, tight and waterlogged. He careers into T-Dog’s gut. Knocks the man to his knees. T-Dog rolls, Merle unable to get purchase on soggy skin. He thinks he gouges him with a toenail. Serves the bugger right for being so hard to catch. So much of Merle’s energy is expended on trying to wrestle his way on top of T-Dog that he forgets he doesn’t have the same advantage of shirtlessness.

T-Dog snags his vest. He twists the fabric, water wringing free in a spiralling rainbow. Sun glistens on the pool’s rippling surface. Beads coat them head to toe. Light splits through the droplets, filling the blue plastic shell with dancing fireflies. Merle has time to process a rare splinter of aesthetic appreciation – _damn, thas’ beautiful_ – before the reality smacks home with a rip.

***

Merle’s playful attempts at escape ain’t so playful anymore.

He thrashes. Yowls. It’s a raw sound: all pain and wrath and desperation. The pain is buried in Merle’s past. Belts cracked across his back. Beatings he bore so his little brother didn’t have to. All so, so long ago that he doesn’t even dream about it anymore. In that moment however, Merle suffers every blow, every cruel lash, every smack and backhand designed only to hurt, on infinite repeat.

He roars again, bucking like an unbroken horse. “Geddoff me! Get off me, ya sonnofabitch –“

T-Dog does so. He’s many things, but he’s not cruel. Even if he doesn’t understand why Merle’s made the lightning-fast transition from cheerful to furious, he recognizes that he’s the cause.

But he’s not also not stupid. He can’t let Merle embark on one of his usual caterwauling sessions, screeching defiance at everyone in earshot from humans and walkers to the heavens themselves. They’ve made enough noise already. He plasters his hand across his mouth.

“Shaddup, idiot! What you yelling for?”

The palm’s wet and cold and tastes of dish-soap.

That’s all Merle can focus on, as his spine’s brought tight to T-Dog’s front, both raised on their knees. That and the eerie unnatural blueness of the light, where the pool’s plastic walls rise above their heads in a translucent corral. T-dog breathes at a steady counterpoint to Merle’s too-short, too-ragged gulps of air.

“Hey, Merle? Merle, you okay? Shit, did I hurt you? Did I catch your… uh… stump?”

Merle’s shivering. It’s got nothing to do with windchill. His wifebeater’s got a nice big slit from nape to the small of his back. He can feel it peeling off his shoulders, water-heavy material dragged down by the friction as he and T-dog’s trunks scrape past each other. When T-Dog arranges himself, grunting as his legs tangle in the stew of laundry and accidentally hoisting Merle a little ways onto his lap, Merle’s vest droops dangerously low.

He’s bright red. ‘Full-lobster’, as Daryl used to say when he wanted a smack. Humiliation and anger and everything in between. He clings to T-Dog’s wrist, because Merle doesn’t beg. Merle Dixon doesn’t ever beg, not to no God and not to no man. Not out loud, at least.

And T-Dog understands. That’s lucky. For his continued existence, if nothing else.

“You ain’t gonna yell no more right?” he asks. Waits for Merle’s twitchy nod and releases him. Merle’s first action is to reach behind himself, grab the shredded sides of his vest and attempt to pin them together. Anything to stop T-Dog getting an eyeful. He doesn’t want to advertise his shame, his weakness, the memorial of everything his father did to him – and, if T-Dog’s words on the matter are to be believed, to his brother as well. But if he’s clutching that last defense between him and every rubbernecker around, he can’t climb the pool ladder.

Naomi takes it upon herself to step forwards. “Merle?” she asks. There’s a lot packed into the way she says his name. Concern. Wariness. She motions for her girls to step back as Merle approaches the steps, grasping the rags of his shirt so tight he damn near cuts off his blood supply. They all obey but Shona. Merle keeps his chin up. He looks each of them in the eye, daring them to comment – all except T-Dog, who will by now be noticing Merle’s reason for calling this match to a halt.

T-Dog, who’s seen the scars etched into Daryl’s back: the mark of Merle’s failings as much as his father’s. T-Dog, who’s a fair sight smarter than Merle likes to insinuate.

“Oh _Merle_ ,” he says. Closes the distance, while Merle vibrates with the urge to snap and sock him once more in his pudgy nose. Can’t the man tell he wants nothing more to be left alone; to retreat and lick his wounds in private? The humidity over his shoulder tells him that a hand’s hovering there. “I’m sorry.”

He sounds all pathetic and genuine about it too. Good for him. Doesn’t change a damn thing – doesn’t change that daddy used him as a punching bag, then wore him out and switched to the younger model. Doesn’t change that Merle’s failings as a brother began back then and continue to the present day. The space at his side is conspicuous in Daryl’s absence, almost as glaring as his missing limb. Merle stares straight ahead.

“Fuck off,” he says, to the world at large. Then decides that if it’s between staying in this pool for the rest of the day and letting T-Dog catch a glimpse of his fucked-up back, muscles shifting under gnarly-thick purple scar tissue, he’ll choose the latter. He unsticks his fingers from the wifebeater. Lets it drape from his shoulders in two halves, like the tatty wings on the back of his old motorcycle jacket. Sets his jaw to a stony square, and clenches the top rung of the pool ladder hard enough to make the plastic creak.

As soon as he’s up and over the rim, he pins his vest again, as best he can. Slithers down the ladder, wincing as he bangs his bandaged arm off the lowest step – and hadn’t Miltie said not to get it wet? Shit, this means suffering another agonizing daub of hoodoo medicine. After today though, Merle’s almost looking forwards to the pain.

He doesn’t intend on looking behind him. Doesn’t do it consciously in fact, as he squishes onto wet grass and awkwardly kneels, using his foreshortened arm to manipulate his boots and pants into a pile he can squeeze against his chest while his other hand holds the strips of fabric covering his shoulderblades. But it happens anyway.

Merle sees T-Dog standing against the midday sun, light glinting off his head brighter than from a kilowatt torch. Water traces the outline of muscle, toned and untoned alike. Idiot’s goofy front teeth scrape his lower lip. He gnaws it from side to side as he strains his ears, trying to listen and determine whether it’s safe to open his eyes.

Merle hums. Considers his options – yelling to T-Dog that he’s decent again, or leaving him in the lurch. He decides on the one that’s liable to cause most annoyance, as usual. And, to add insult to injury, he swings by T-Dog's pile of shed clothes and steals his shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **My notes for the next chapter are: "Wet Merle in too-big shirt". You're welcome in advance.**
> 
> **This fic is gonna get NSFW soon-ish. Leave me a comment, and it might happen faster.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which T-Dog retrieves his shirt.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **We're getting closer to the porn. I promise!**

“Merle! There you are, dammit. Gimme back my shir –“ T-Dog cuts himself off. It’s funny to watch him settle his burly body like a soldier on parade. “Oh, hey Governor. Didn’t see ya there.”

Merle’s got the Governor cornered. He ain’t giving the man any excuse for not hearing him out. The three of them have gathered on darker, damper side of Merle’s crummy house. It’s like a tree in the northern hemisphere: splitting the sunlight sheer down its center with one side warm and illuminated in vibrant golds, the light so bright it distorts your vision as if you’ve been immersed in a tumbler of whiskey; and the other dingy and smelling faintly of woodrot. The Governor’s staring down his nose at Merle, making an art out of being unimpressed. Merle, in return, is practising his nastiest leer, the one that’s reminiscent of Halloween masks. T-Dog should leave them to it. But before he can evacuate the area, Merle hooks a thumb in his direction.

“Spearchucker here agrees.”

“Do I?” T-Dog wonders what he’s got himself into. The Governor’s got that twitch in his temple that signifies a lack of amusement, and Merle somehow manages to make damp skin and an oversized shirt look menacing as he sizes up the taller man.

“S’right. T-Dog and me – we fought like dogs, didn’t we? And I weren’t the one to start it.”

T-Dog licks his lips, nervous when the Governor’s gaze alights on him. “You kinda were.”

“Yeah, but ya could’ve said _no_. You were spoilin’ for a punch up too. Don’t deny it.”

T-Dog’s not suicidal. He doesn’t.

Merle’s discarded the tatters of his wifebeater indoors. Not permanently – he’ll con one of the girls into sewing it up for him when he gets the chance. For now, he’s more than comfortable in T-Dog’s poncho of a t-shirt, whose neckhole dangles below his collarbones and the rim of which crests his thighs. He has yet to dry fully from his immersion in the pool, and the fabric sticks to him in patches. For Merle, who’s accustomed to filling out any top he tries, it’s an odd experience. But he’d be lying if he pretended not to like it. He wonders if T-Dog gets off seeing Merle prance about like his usual rowdy self, backchatting and picking battles that’re beyond him, all while wearing T-Dog’s scent.

Because that’s what that smoky aroma is, Merle realizes as T-Dog tentatively closes the distance and makes their duo a triad. Something beneath the dishsoap-cum-detergent and the lingering odor of sweat and zombie. It’s T-Dog. Nothing more, nothing less.

T-Dog, who’s glancing at him out the corner of his eye. “I enjoyed the fight,” he says, skirting the reason his t-shirt adorns Merle’s scarred back rather than his own. “So what? What you playing at, Merle?”

“I’m tryin’ to convince Beanpole Bossman here that what this town needs is some good ol’ fashioned entertainment.”

“If by ‘old-fashioned’ you mean Gladiator bouts,” the Governor interrupts.

Merle shrugs. “Don’t see nothin’ wrong with that.” He postures and the Governor glares and, as usual, it’s up to T-Dog to mediate.

“We could sure use some way of keeping the civilians amused…” He ignores Merle’s huff that he _is_ a civilian. T-Dog might’ve given up the adventuring post-apocalyptic lifestyle in favor of a busy schoolroom and a pile of plastic-smelling textbooks, but he knows the nightmare that lays beyond the wall with an intimacy few other non-combatant Woodburians boast. He can fight; he can defend himself. Just because he chooses not to take up arms on the wall, it doesn’t mean he couldn’t if the need arose. However, if he wants to maintain that ability he’s got to keep in shape. “It could be good training, so long as it was controlled. Y’know, like boxing matches – with a referee, and all. Who’d fight who, though? We can’t have, uh, experienced guys,” (guys like Merle) “using this as an excuse to stomp on newbies.”

Merle’s nod is appreciative. “Walkers then,” he says, turning back to the Governor in time to miss T-Dog’s shocked yelp.

“ _Walkers_? You mad? Ya _want_ to bring that sickness here?”

“If it’ll show these yellow-belly pussies how to respect the Biters without fearin’ ‘em, then yeah.”

T-Dog’s mouth works in aghast ineloquence. “You’re insane,” is his final conclusion. Dammit, he only came here for his shirt. Why’d he have to get involved with Merle’s violent nonsense? If he were a sensible man, he’d turn tail and march off, leaving a demand for his clothing to be returned, folded and sat on in lieu of an iron. Not that said demand would have any result, but at least it’d give Merle someone else to be mad at, and quell this brewing argument.

“I think,” sneers Merle, swaggering towards him, “that _you’re_ the loopy one. Can ya imagine that lil’ ginger of yours plugging a Walker in the eye, as she is now?” T-Dog doesn’t have time to force a lie; Merle barrels on, prodding T-Dog hard in his bare damp chest. The shirt may dwarf him, but Merle still manages to dominate T-Dog’s vision with exuberance alone. “Hell no! The moment shit goes wrong, she’s first on the munchie-menu. Say bubye to all yer brats, in fact. I ain’t sticking my neck on the line to protect them. Specially not since they’re old enough to start learnin’ how to look after themselves.”

“No kid should be forced to kill,” T-Dog argues, although there’s a queasy taste in the back of his throat that proclaims Merle right. If there used to be regulations about this sort of thing, they’ve long-disintegrated now. There’s no more difference between a child and an adult than there is between different-sized steaks on the butcher’s slab.

Merle’s invocation of Lucy makes the Governor’s frown tighten. He says nothing, withholding judgment, but he’s evidently considering Merle’s proposal in a new light. T-Dog doesn’t know when he went from playing Devil’s advocate to being the main protestor of Merle’s plan, but it’s happened somewhere in the interim and is now unretractable. “It ain’t right,” is his final weak testimonial. “It ain’t Christian.”

Merle gives him a full blown snort-and-eye-roll combo. “Ain’t’chu heard, Zulu Warrior?” he spits. It may be T-Dog’s imagination, but he swears he sees a sun-scorched Atlanta rooftop reflected in those storm-grey eyes. “If there is a God, he’s as savage as the rest of this world. Fuck God, I say. Ain’t nobody gonna save me but me.”

***

_Ain’t nobody gonna save me but me._

Those words trail T-Dog, rainclouds over a cartoon character’s head. He’s been distracted all week. His mind pulses with disjointed contemplation, as if it’s bloated by fever. T-Dog’s not quite sure if he’s here or there, but whatever his location, thoughts of Merle and his brutalized back stalk him like flies after a dragged carcass.

T-Dog had shut his eyes, but his imagination fills in where his vision faltered. Diagonal stripes on a colour spectrum spanning between silver and aubergine, knotty and twisted. Old circular burns standing out against pale freckles, the flesh still looking impossibly tender. A chronicled tapestry of abuse.

It’s that half-invented recollection that next spurs T-Dog into approaching him. Class is out, and Shona and the rest of Woodbury’s assorted guardians – mothers, fathers, aunts, grandpas, neighbors, whoever’s left – have collected their charges. Now it’s only T-Dog. He’s kept company by the scent of roast squirrel floating in through the open window, and five freshly wiped tables surrounded by rosettes of multi-coloured chairs: deckchairs, kitchen stools, fold-up seats, whatever the townspeople could scrounge. They want to be stacked, freeing the teaching space for Sunday’s service. T-Dog performs his duties in monotonous silence, muscle memory taking over. The automaton heave and crash of flimsy fold-up table legs is meditative as he considers his next options.

He owes Merle an apology. For assuming the worst about his brother’s scars, and about him in general. Sure, Merle hadn’t gone out of his way to befriend T-Dog when they first met, but T-Dog’s seen enough of him by now to realize that while the meth hadn’t distorted his personality beyond recognition, it’d definitely enhanced the nasty parts of it.

So why has he been avoiding him all week? What’s he so afraid of? Not another fight – T-Dog won’t instigate, but he sure as heck ain’t gonna take a beating without giving as good in return. Perhaps he’s nervous because of how much he enjoyed that last sploshing, soaking wrestling match (until the moment Merle’s vest ripped, and he made that terrible bestial noise that T-Dog still hears every time the peaceful Woodbury ambience is split by a walker’s scream…) It ain’t fair to wuss out because his mind’s all out-of-whack. T-Dog just needs to spend enough time with Merle to remind himself of why he dislikes him, and then he’ll be able to get him out of his head. Until he does so there’s no catharsis to be found. Merle’s an aching tooth T-Dog can’t stop tonguing, even when it hurts. Must be that conversation of theirs, the finishing line of which still gnaws on him.

_Ain’t nobody gonna save me but me._

Does Merle really believe that? T-Dog mulls this over as he pushes open the flaky whitewashed door and pauses a moment to bathe in the crisp blast of wind down the Woodbury high street. Does he really think that no one would hold out a hand for him if he’d been kicked down? He wants to say something, do something, to prove to Merle that he’s not alone anymore. Because so long as T-Dog’s around to watch his back, that idiot redneck won’t have to fight the world single-handed. Pun not intended.

Summer is in full swing. It’s nearing four, and the sun has crept past to its zenith: a hazy yellow orb that bakes the earth to crust and makes the air quiver with shimmery heat haze. The forest beyond the wall is dry and crackling, brush like tinder. The men and women on guard duty trail sweat as they traipse from post to post, shoulders flaky with sunburn.

Merle’s been given the okay to join them. It’s stupid – the man’s an amputee, for chrissake. But T-Dog supposes that Merle had driven out to the old farmstead not a week after waking from a sunstroke-and-withdrawal-induced coma, with no ill effects. Marching along the top of compacted tyres and corrugated metal sheets won’t be beyond him, and Merle’s tough enough to handle the kickback of a pistol without a supporting hand.

Right now, the wall’s a little sticky and melty from the sun. But Woodbury’s residents remain adamant in its defensibility. To them it’s higher than the Himalayas and sturdier than the Hindu Kush. Merle’s helping maintain that illusion, the thin veil of safety that keeps these last vestiges of humanity from going mad and slaughtering themselves in their neatly made beds. T-Dog ought to be grateful. So why’s he only feel irritated, as Merle hops over the barricade and gleefully stabs a biter in the brain? Perhaps it’s because Merle’s being reckless as usual, acting as if his life ain’t worth the meagre shit T-Dog gives about it. But he suspects it has more to do with the woman who helps haul Merle back up to the high vantage.

Shona.

Sweat makes her tanned skin shimmer gold. Merle isn’t the most attractive, especially not with his face bright red from heat and exertion. But neither’s she, and together their ugliness almost forms something beautiful, as they share a bright fierce predator’s grin.

T-Dog’s tongue remains shaped around Merle’s name. _M-E-R-L-E_ , a single languid syllable, an itch on the roof of your mouth you can never quite scratch. For a moment, he considers turning heel and making his way back to the sunlit schoolroom. Then shakes himself. What the hell’s he feeling _rejected_ for? Just because he can’t get the bastard out of his head doesn’t mean he should hog his company. Let Merle have other buds. Let him date women, settle down, be tamed…

Why does that leave a bitter taste in his mouth? T-Dog doesn’t dare contemplate.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to. Merle spots him. Giving Shona a farewell fist-bump, he bounces onto the grubby tarmac of Woodbury’s central road. “Mr Yo! Where you been at, boy?”

 _Laying low. Teaching my kids, sorting Wendy’s books, doing my job. Steering clear of you._ T-Dog shrugs. “Been busy.”

“Yeah, well…” Merle’s gait is an easy thing, salient and rolling. Not quite a swagger, not quite a lope, although it could be called either. His arm’s drenched with walker blood; it cracks when he flexes a fist, admiring the zigzag of fractures through dried black rot. “Why don’tchu clear yer schedule this afternoon, huh? Swing by mine. I got somethin’ to show ya.”

All linguistic capabilities elude him. It’s all T-Dog can do to nod, baffled as to why he feels so nervous. Whatever Merle was looking for, silence ain’t it. His grin twists into a sneer. “Sure, be like that. Guess ya don’t want yer shirt back. What do I care? It’ll make a decent rag to wipe my ass with –“

“I’ll come,” T-Dog blurts, if only to get him to shut up. Merle’s fellow watchdogs are snickering. While he’s had his vest re-patched – T-Dog shakes his head to prevent his gaze from lingering on the crudely-stitched seam as Merle nods and struts off down the street – it’s not so easy to sterilize a shirt when you’re armed only with laundry detergent.

***

That’s how he winds up here: one fist poised above Merle’s rickety front door, dithering over whether to knock. Merle only occupies a single room – probably ain’t used to owning much space. That’s across the hall, up the creaking, woodworm-chewed stairs, and over the landing that seems damp no matter how hot the sun bakes outside. Will he even hear, if T-Dog bangs for him? He oughta walk right on in. So why’s he hesitating?

Is he afraid of Merle? Or afraid of his own shame, and his inability to say those words that’ll smooth things between them – _I’m sorry?_ T-Dog doesn’t consider himself as a prideful person, but that must be it. He’s smarting on a subconscious level, balking at the thought of apologizing to a lily-white trailertrash gobshite.

But just cause Merle’s a dick doesn’t mean T-Dog has to stoop to his level. Mind made up, he scoots open the door, using one boot as if expecting to find Merle camped out behind it with a grin and a butcher’s knife. No such lurking abomination awaits him. T-Dog makes it to Merle’s room unmolested, albeit flinching every time the banister creaks.

“Merle?” he calls, eyeing the doorknob distrustfully. He notices that it locks on the outside. No doubt a leftover from when the walkers first began to stagger from the morgues, and people still kept loved ones locked up in the hopes they’d return. A childish part of him wants to slide that bolt and run from the awkward conversation that’s sure to ensue, but T-Dog drums that immaturity down. He’s a damn adult. He can handle this. And anyway, Merle’d only climb out the window again. “Merle, can I come in?”

“Gimme a minute, gimme a minute…” In this grotty mess of a hovel, Merle’s voice comes as a welcome relief. It turns the atmosphere from spooky to merely lacking in hospitality. T-Dog boots the doorframe lightly as he listens to Merle rummaging around, watching flecks of dust and ancient cobweb shake loose.

“You really oughta do some decorating.”

Merle’s snicker carries easily through the worm-bloated wood. He yanks the door open, almost sending T-Dog lurching inside – serves him right for leaning on the damn thing. “You volunteerin’?” he asks. T-Dog gets halfway through his response (“Yeah sure, lemme fetch my damn feather duster”) before he notices Merle’s wearing his shirt.

It hangs off his shoulder, effortlessly provocative, a challenge and a tease woven into one. If Merle were a chick, T-Dog would think he was coming onto him. As it is, he tells himself Merle’s just being his usual antagonistic self, and settles on feeling annoyed rather than aroused. Then his gaze tracks down. It alights on what’s attached to Merle’s stump-arm.

“Holy shit.”

“Holy shit indeed.” Merle gleefully twists the prosthetic knife-arm left and right, light glancing between it and T-Dog’s dark cheeks, newly dipped in sweat. “Lookit. Ain’t she a beaut?” T-Dog none-to-subtly checks his exit strategy. Merle’s smirk deepens. Lingering in T-Dog’s personal space far too long for comfort, he drags the blunt edge of the knife along the curve of his jaw. “Don’tchu be scared of lil’ Merle. He likes ya.”

Pointing out the double entendre will get him punched. Potentially stabbed. T-Dog freezes, not daring to breathe in case Merle’s knife skids and slits his jugular. “S’nice,” he manages. Merle scrapes his blade through T-Dog’s soul strip, testing the give of the wiry hairs. He examines that patch of fuzz, lips slightly pursed as he works out how much pressure he can apply before the blade starts to cut. T-Dog nudges the prosthetic. Then, when that doesn’t meet with any negative response, grabs the chilled metal and angles the knife away.

“Don’t want no dry shave,” he explains. Merle shrugs.

“Wuss.” But he doesn’t press the matter. “So, I ain’t gonna lie, spearchucker. I didn’t think you’d show. Seein’ as you’ve had so much important stuff to do. Drawin’ dicks on the blackboard an’ such.”

T-Dog ignores the jibe at his chosen profession. Just cause Merle _wants_ to gank walkers for a living, doesn’t mean everyone’s cut out for that lifestyle. “We don’t use blackboards anymore,” he says. Merle scoffs.

“Don’t tell me thas’ another thing like nig – uh, the n-word. Well heck, I ain’t complainin’ either way. Never much liked dem things.”

To be honest, T-Dog’s surprised Merle stayed in education long enough to remember them. “When’d you leave school?” he asks. Merle squints at him. It’s not quite hostile, but it sure ain’t trustworthy, and T-Dog is again reminded of the proximity of the knife.

“Why you wanna know?”

Because T-Dog’s beginning to acknowledge where he might have misstepped in his initial judgment of Merle, and because he’s still putting off that overdue apology. Enough of this.

“Merle,” he says, looking him directly in the eye. They’re too close: Merle boxed in the doorframe, T-Dog just beyond the threshold. Neither want to admit surrender through retreat. Merle’s skin looks grubby, in a well-worn kind of way, as if the grime has sunk into his pores, too deep for a nightly sponge-down to take care of. It’d require a scalding bath and a wire pot descaler to get the elder Dixon presentable. But, as T-Dog discovers, he doesn’t mind his unkempt appearance. End of the world’s been and gone; there ain’t much place for strict hygiene regimes anymore. Ain’t much place for anything T-Dog used to know. Folks who once would never have mingled are now thrown together by their new lot in life. They fight together or they die together, united against the common enemy. Somewhere along the line, a black footballer and a racist redneck might just become grudging acquaintances. “Merle, can I come in? There’s something I gotta say.”

Merle studies him a drawn-out minute, unreadable. Then grunts and nudges the door wider ajar, sloping for his bed. He sits on it cross-legged. There’s a dinky lil chair besides, but T-Dog doubts it’ll take his weight – it looks like it’d struggle under Mamet’s. He makes to fold onto the floor. Merle snorts.

“Whatchu’ doin’ down there, Mr. Yo? Me case, suitcase, an’ all that.”

“Mi casa, su casa.”

“Thas what I said. Now geddup here.” He pats the space behind him, amused by T-Dog’s discomfort. T-Dog arranges himself gingerly, a respectable foot between them, wincing as the springs protest. Once he’s settled, Merle grins and kicks back, laying horizontal with his shiny new knife hand crimping T-Dog’s thigh. He makes a show of getting comfortable. T-Dog is anything but. “Well, Zulu Warrior? Spill.”

T-Dog takes a hearty breath. “I wanted to tell ya…”

“Yeah?”

“That I might’ve, uh, been a bit of a jackass.”

Merle sits, not appearing to notice that he’s carved an accidental slice in his grubby sheet. “The fuck? _You_ were bein’ a jackass? Ain’t that your usual line?”

Not how T-Dog had imagined this conversation going. Persevering, he sits as formally as he can manage while in a tatty second-best shirt and cargo pants, and addresses his next words to his knees. “I shouldn’ta said that shit. ‘Bout you and Daryl. Weren’t fair of me to assume.”

Merle squints at him, frowning – not in frustration, or anger, or any other of those volatile Merle-emotions that precede a punch-up, but in genuine consternation, as if he’s trying to figure T-Dog out. “What is this?”

T-Dog wets his lips. “An apology.”

“Oh.” For a moment, there’s silence. Merle watches him from the corner of his eye like a wary bird, not seeming to know how to respond. “Okay. Uh. I ain’t sayin’ sorry for none of that nigger stuff, y’know.”

Way to ruin a moment. “Christ, Merle!”

“What? Whaddid I do?” The situation’s so surreal T-Dog doesn’t know whether to laugh or scowl. Once the irritation at hearing that word coming from Merle’s dumb cracker mouth recedes, a glance at his bewildered face inclines T-Dog to the former. “The hell, spearchucker? What’s so funny?”

T-Dog can’t help it – he moves without thinking. Still shaking with laughter, he claps Merle on the shoulder and hauls him against his side for a tight one-armed hug. It’s the sort of thing he might’ve done with one of the guys on his team after a good game, either in victory or commiseration. Merle isn’t a footballer, and he’s not on T-Dog’s team, and there definitely isn’t much to celebrate anymore. He stiffens. The fabric of T-Dog’s shirt is soft with age and loving wear, a contrast with the lean hard man beneath it. Chuckling, T-Dog gives Merle’s arm a last pat and releases him – realizing only now that he’s dragged him across that safe no-man’s-land so they’re sitting side by side.

Sitting side by side, on Merle’s bed. No wonder he’s turning rapidly crimson.

Time to excuse himself before Merle decides to use him as a knife-sheathe. T-Dog lurches off the bed, last snickers lost to the crotchety squeak of expanding springs. “I best be off,” he says, as if Merle ain’t pulling off a remarkable transformation into a tomato. “Don’t wanna cramp your style none.”

“You don’t gotta…” Merle’s reply manifests too fast, even to T-Dog’s ears. Merle, if the way he’s studying his boots is any indication, is well aware. “I mean,” he says, as T-Dog shakes his head and lumbers for the exit. He lets his wicked hyena-grin creep over his chops, revealing a set of full white teeth. “Y’all could hang around as long as you like. You, me, an’ lil’ Merle here. Quite the team.”

…Okay. No matter how much of a raging homophobe the guy is, there’s no way T-Dog can’t interpret that as suggestive. He spins in the doorway, ready to pin Merle with an incredulous look – and finds himself nose-to-tip with a bayonet.

“Oh,” he says weakly. “ _That_ lil’ Merle.” Merle tuts. Whatever brief waver had overcome him, it’s well and truly battened; now there’s only Merle Dixon, badass extraordinaire, alpha-dog of every pack he joins. Straight as T-Dog and twice as nasty.

T-Dog’s thoughts on that penultimate trait have to be reassessed, as Merle sets the prick of his blade over his fluttering heart.

“Uh-huh,” he purrs, twisting it to dig through the fabric. The fibers split – another hole; perfect. Just what T-Dog wants. “Don’tchu go gettin’ excited.”

“The only thing I’m excited about,” T-Dog forces himself to say as the blade exerts a relentless pressure, forcing him into a brisk rearwards shuffle, “is getting my shirt back.” He stops when his heel grazes the top step. Merle’s eyes are glimmers of steel, but they’re alive with amusement and something else, something T-Dog can’t – or won’t – put a name to. His prosthetic twitching to the spasms of T-Dog’s pulse, Merle moves until their chests and stomachs brush, the click of their belt buckles metallically sonorous.

“Shut your eyes then,” he grunts.

And T-Dog does.

Next moment, the blade retreats. There’s a rustle, a couple of curses, a snap when T-Dog makes to peek – “I said _shut ‘em,_ dammit!” Then an armful of cotton, warm from Merle’s body and the heat of a long physical day. T-Dog, half-expecting a stab wound, oofs, wobbles, and almost falls down the stairs.

“Can I look yet?” he asks.

“Nah.” Merle’s breath is moist and sour on his face. T-Dog can envision his smirk. “Think I prefer ya like this.”

His balance is precarious. The cool breeze reminds him that he’s a pace away from tumbling, breaking his neck, and going full-biter there and then. For all that, he doesn’t feel afraid. Only nervous, in the way any sane man would be in the presence of a creature of chaos. If anything, what’s more disturbing than being blind in front of a guy who, had their paths crossed a month back, would’ve gutted him without a second thought, is the fact that his vulnerability is voluntary. T-Dog could break Merle’s rule. He could tell him to quit playing about and let him get on with his evening.

But T-Dog also recognizes that in returning the garment, Merle’s dismantled his own defences. T-Dog’s closed eyes don’t tip the playing field in Merle’s direction; they level it.

And so, he waits.

Merle’s close enough to radiate warmth, along with the scent of woodland earth, putrid blood and gunsmoke. It’s not a concoction T-Dog ever found appealing, but in this moment he could inhale forever. He stands on the precipice, trusting Merle won’t stab or push, and listens to the suck and pull of the other man’s breath, slowing his own in tandem. But they can’t remain like this forever, as pleasant as it would be. T-Dog chews his lip before committing to speak.

“Now what?”

It’s like breaking a spell. Merle jerks away. T-Dog almost goes flailing, snatching the banister at the last moment, shirt clutched like a flag from an enemy standard. His eyes snap open. He clocks a whipcrack image of Merle: bare from the waist up, a tough and wiry mutt of a man. He doesn’t quite cringe when he notices T-Dog’s watching. He comes close though – holding his prosthetic over his torso, not to defend it from attack but from T-Dog’s view.

“Close yer eyes,” he says again, voice scratching his throat. Then, when T-Dog only clings to the banister and goggles – “Look the fuck away before I make ya. I ain’t gonna beg.”

T-Dog’s got too much self-preservation to do otherwise. “Bye Merle,” he says as he tramps down the stairs. “You wanna borrow my clothes again brother, all you gotta do is ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Gah they're so cute.**
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> **Please leave a comment if you want this fic to continue!**
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> ****


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which drink is drunk and kisses are shared.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hubba hubba, have a taste of smut.**

Matters continue in a way that’d practically be mundane, if there weren’t dead folks rollicking about outside Woodbury’s walls. A bunch of men and women kitted to the nines with guns walk out the gates every morning. Every night, most of them come back.

Merle spends a lot of time watching these patrols. It’s necessary – he’s due to head out on his first next week, and it’s best he learn the sort of idiots he’ll be working with. The twilight team’s entering at the moment: haggard and grim-faced but hauling a vital truckload of supplies. Merle takes mental notes of those who clutch their weapons with the tenseness of a green recruit, those who look uncertain or nervy. He files their faces in his memory banks. Those’re the ones that’ll need to be smacked into shape once he’s in charge.

But honestly, the patrols are a distraction. What’s really eating at Merle’s mind is the offer.

T-Dog’s extended it to him twice now. Once drunk, in a slurred drawl even Merle had had trouble deciphering. And again this very morning, following the evening they’d spent admiring Merle’s new hand. The confusing, conflicted evening, where Merle had told T-Dog to shut his eyes and he’d done so without question, and Merle had so almost kissed him…

But anyway. The offer.

“You wanna come drinking with me and Gargulio tonight?”

“Why’d I wanna come drinking with a spic an’ a –“ Merle had cut himself off. Not because of the forthcoming slur – so he told himself – but because despite his best pretence at the contrary, he _did_ want to. Call it whatever you wanted: leftover disappointment from his failure to locate anything pertaining to Daryl at the farm, a subconscious desire to appease the governor and make good with T-Dog, even plain ol’ loneliness. He’s barely seen hide nor hair of the man this past week, outside what he glimpses from his window. Merle’s obnoxious personality is straining at the bit; right now the thought of sitting round a lousy campfire with two guys, swilling rotgut and exchanging insults, punches, and tall tales, sounds real damn sweet.

“Where you meeting?” he’d asked instead.

“Gargulio’s place. On the town’s edge – even got a lil’ garden, not that he looks after it. Wall’s built right through the centre. We can sit out under the stars.”

Merle had snorted. “Sounds cushy. You tryin’ to butter me up?”

“Sounds _nice_ ,” T-Dog had corrected him. “C’mon. Ain’t much nice in the world any more. Let’s make the most of this.” Whether he was acting benevolent to make up for falsely accusing Merle of brother-battery, or he’d been cloned and swapped out with some wacko-replacement, Merle didn’t trust the extended hand of friendship. But that hand of friendship also brought a bottle, and so Merle acquiesced.

Hence why he sits here. Parked on the pavement, forcing the evening pedestrians to meander onto the road if they want to avoid him.

He gets a few glares – fuck knows _why_. Ain’t like working cars are allowed inside the town’s limits. Worst they’ll get smacked by is the heat from the sticky black tarmac, which seeps up through the soles of Merle’s boots like tepid swampwater. He watches the denizens of Woodbury go about their dull lil’ days, waiting for the lengthening shadows to proclaim him a fashionable half-hour late. Because if there’s one thing Merle ain’t never been accused of being, it’s needy. He’s gonna make T-Dog wait on him. Not so long that he’ll bust out the moonshine regardless of his presence, but enough to make it look like he only remembered their scheduled shindig at the last possible moment. Because Merle doesn’t care. Not one jot.

Him and T-Dog. T-Dog and him. Spending time together. Like buds.

Gargulio’ll be there too – for which Merle is simultaneously grateful and pissed-off (and more pissed-off still _because_ he’s pissed-off.) It means he won’t be able to jump T-Dog’s bones. The voice in his head insists that he has no desire to act on that impulse anyway, because he ain’t attracted to negroes. For all its vehemence, it doesn’t sound especially convincing.

It’s just cause it’s been a while. Merle’s hungry for a repeat of the car-incident: T-Dog pinning him in the grungy footwell, all hefty pork and hissed whispers for Merle to shut up, lay still, take what he’s given... Only preferably, with more thrusting and grinding, and a helluva lot less biters. But that’s generic, bog-standard horniness. Heck, Merle’d roll over and spread his legs for the Governor if the man propositioned him. In the middle of the goddam street if he had to. He’s in the mood for nookie, yeah – but that’s got fuck-all to do with T-Dog’s particular person.

He lurches onto his feet in a burst of energy. Passing citizens watch him as if he’s a muzzleless pitbull. Merle’s still practically a stranger here. The women he stomped laundry with, the men he fried besides on the wall – steeling himself to the memories of the Atlanta rooftop that’d so nearly been the end of his life and his sanity… Few look at him. Those that’re brave enough to meet his eyes only hold his gaze a second before they glance away. As he hasn’t made any attempts to make nice, the Woodbury folk treat him in the way he’s used to: like he’ll bite if they hold out a hand. Merle prefers it like that. Better they stay terrified of getting on his bad side, than he allow himself to grow dependent on their kindness.

Merle stretches, cricking his spine. Milton told him in quaking tones that he’s only to wear the prosthetic every third day, until his wound gets used to the stress. Merle had initially told him to fuck off before he added said prosthetic to the amount of sticks already cluttering Milton’s asshole. But after Milton said he’d have no choice but to saw more off if Merle kept agitating the wound, he relented.

Now, he spares the Governor a mocking stump-handed salute. Man’s come out to meet his troops, a General descending from his high-horse. He’s full of guff: gruff congratulations for his soldiers, salutations to the wall crew. When one of the townspeople hails him and bids him a good day, he treats her to a blithe smile, as if everything’s alright in the world. “Good day to you too, ma’am. And you, Merle. Where are you off to?”

A casual question. But beneath it lays a probe, one which Merle feels no need to oblige. Once he’s in charge of defences, he’ll tell the Governor they need a proper curfew. Anyone not on duty will be shepherded inside before lights out. But for tonight, Merle’s got a date with T-Dog and moonshine – one he wants to enjoy without Woodbury’s self-proclaimed leader breathing down his neck. “Stuff an’ things,” he replies. “You?”

“Stuff and things,” the Governor echoes. They smile at each other. Then the Governor tips his head and returns to debriefing the patrol squad. Merle smirks to himself. But he enjoys the newfound deference on the faces of the townspeople, who’re impressed that the governor addressed him by name.

Perhaps this whole lieutenant gig won’t be such a drag. He could get used to being respected.

***

Respected by anyone but grimy lil’ shits with a deathwish.

“That,” says Gargulio, rocking the empty oil drum he’s perched atop of, as he points accusingly at Merle, “is the biggest crock of bullshit I’ve ever heard.”

“S’true!” He’s lucky Merle ain’t a mean drunk. Despite their first less-than-stellar first meeting, a fortnight ago now, liquor is the greatest social lubricant known to man. It took all of five minutes for Gargulio’s surliness to wear off. Now they’re boasting about the weirdest shit they’ve seen since the apocalypse like fisherman comparing catches.

Gargulio sniggers, teeth throwing back ruddy orange firelight. “Fuck off.” His tan-brown face is almost eclipsed in shadow. T-Dog, darker still, is nigh invisible – all Merle can see of him is the whites of his eyes, and his stupid bunny buck-teeth.

His cute bunny buck-teeth. His cute bunny buck-teeth that Merle longs to explore with his tongue…

Another swill from his bottle scrubs that thought. Merle doesn’t know what’s been fermenting in the ramshackle old shed that Gargulio dubs the ‘moon-landing site’, but it’s good shit, so neither does he care. He pounds T-Dog between the shoulderblades, rocking him on the log they’re sharing, and flops over his meaty side. His stubbled cheek grazes T-Dog’s ear. “Ain’t it true, Mr. Yo? You was there, you can vouch…”

T-Dog bears his boozy breath with surprising tolerance. “And you,” he says, clonking his bottle gently on Merle’s, “were off your rocker at the time. Weren’t no damn zombie pigeons, dude. There was the nutjob trying to feed ‘em bits of gristle in the park, like it was a usual fuckin’ Saturday morning. But the rest of it was in your goddam mind.”

Merle ignores him, chortling like he’s listening to jokes on a frequency only he can hear. This close he can smell T-Dog: hooch and body odor and muted testosterone, overpowering the acrid smoke from the low-burnt fire. He ain’t snorted coke since last time he rocked an Atlanta club, but T-Dog’s reek brings its own unique high. It sizzles through his brain, bouncing from left to right hemisphere like a pingpong ball. Merle could sniff him all day. Bury his face between those beefy pecs; under his arms; in his groin where the smell’ll be strongest, tinged with a rich pubic musk that’ll saturate Merle’s synapses as he slurps T-Dog’s meat to the back of his throat and swallows…

T-Dog doesn’t push him off, assuming Merle’s a clingy drunk. Merle’s more than happy to pretend. He continues his story, slumped on T-Dog’s shoulder, snuggling in until their thighs bump. “An – an’ my lil’ bro caught a bunch of pigeons and gave ‘em to that rugmuncher –“

“Andrea.”

“-To pluck for dinner. But she were a city slick who knew fuck-all about prepping a damn bird. Dumb wench tried to roast it with the feathers on. Damn thing caught fire! Then the zombie pigeons started dive-bombin’ us to avenge their buddy or whatever –“

“Yeah, that was in your head too, Merle.”

“And the lil’ chink was screaming –“

“Because you were yodelling about invisible birds after dark, when who knew how many geeks were about! Also, for fuck’s sake, he’s Korean –“

“Whatever! So he’s bitching an’ whining like a damn pussy and Shane comes over, all big n’butch an’ tryin’ to shut us up. Course, it’s me he goes for…”

“’Cause it was your fault.”

“And then Daryl comes outta the woods and chucks a bunch o’squirrels at Rugmuncher, who’s wearing one of dem low-cut top thingies. Of course the squirrel lands right in there, givin’ her a proper good ol’ motorboating. Then _she_ starts screaming, and goes to cling to Shane. And Lori gets pissed because Shane’s her baby-daddy, right?”

T-Dog snorts. “Who the heck knows.”

“So she tells Andrea to go cry on me instead, cause I ain’t taken. But of course, I ain’t touching that bird with a damn bargepole, and she ain’t touching me.”

“Really?” Gargulio interrupts. “Ain’t she the hot blonde? Thought you’d be all over that.” He shoots Merle a leery wink, rotgut slopping over his jeans, and uses his spare hand to shape curves against his scrawny chest. Merle scoffs.

“Fuck naw. I’ll have ya know, Gar- Gargi- Gargiooli- Neil. I’mma proper gentleman.” That sets T-Dog guffawing. Merle’s good mood sours. He peels his face from T-Dog’s shoulder to squint at him. “What? What’chu laughin’ at?”

“You? A gentleman? I hear the way ya talk about the ladies, Merle –“

“What? Just ‘cuz I don’t like ‘em, don’t mean I can’t be nice when it matters –“

“Don’t like ‘em, huh,” says Gargulio, too far gone to conceive of the dangers involved in waggling his eyebrows.

Merle chucks his next bottle onto the embers of their fire, fumes igniting with a whoosh. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve. Stands. And lunges, swiping Gargulio clean off the barrel.

“Shit!” T-Dog staggers upright. He’s by far the most sober of the three. While he doesn’t remember what he did to piss Merle off last time he got sloshed, its consequences were severe enough to encourage self-restraint. He joins the fray, prying Merle from the smaller man. “Fuck, Merle, learn t’take a damn joke!”

The Georgia night is sticky, moist as the rainforest. Merle pants unsatisfying lungfulls of humid air. He glowers at Gargulio, who’s scrabbling across the patch of overgrown grass that constitutes a Woodbury garden, nursing a split lip and a bloody chin. The wall halves the moon’s faraway sickle. Gargulio winds up pressed against it, eyes glassy with fear. He’s dropped his bottle. Moonshine waters the weeds in glugs, noisy against the soundscape of crickets and buzzing midges. “M’sorry man, was just a joke –“

Merle’s still glowering, still sneering. The reignited fire, fed on spirits, licks behind his sweaty back, smearing him with amber. His eyesight wobbles in and out of focus. Two Gargulios drift back and forth, both equally prone and punchable. Therefore two Gargulios need to pay.

Merle lurches for the nearest, disorientated and snarling. T-Dog catches him before he can flop on his face. “Woah there. I think you’ve had enough. Look, if ya can’t play nice, ya ain’t gonna sit out here with us again.”

Great. This big negro thinks he can chide him like a misbehaving schoolboy, stick him in the naughty-corner when he acts up... Merle’s muscles go rigid under T-Dog’s palm. He’s raring to fight, all of a sudden. Either one of them. Possibly both at once. But he never gets the chance. Growling, T-Dog closes the distance between his chest and Merle’s back. His beer gut forces Merle to arch, moulding him to T-Dog’s shape as he wraps solid arms around him and squeezes him tight.

“I said _woah,_ idiot.”

His skin’s an extension of the night, albeit given an ochre, earthy hue by the firelight. Merle freezes, caught sure as a fly in a web. T-Dog’s flaccid in his pants. Merle can tell because the man’s so close. Fuck, if the denim between them weren’t so thick, all it’d take would be a quick rearwards grind for him to work out his religion…

A noise evacuates his throat, something breathy and startled. He rocks back, hard enough – he hopes – for the action to be mistaken for a futile attempt to throw T-Dog off him. T-Dog’s lips brush his temple. Plump, dark lips Merle should wanna bite off, not have cresting his own. “Cool it, ya damn redneck,” he hisses. “Come sit the fuck down.”

Every instinct screams for him to fight. To whale on Gargulio’s pretty lil’ face until the boy pleads for reprieve. To slug T-Dog in the gut and reclaim his damn pride. But while Merle enacts each of these scenarios in his head, what actually occurs is quite different. He allows T-Dog to manhandle him back to their log: a dead trunk pitted with woodlice holes that’s rot-soft on its underside. The sickly oaky smell flavors the air when Merle slumps on to it, gouging his heels into the fungi digesting the ancient bark. It grounds him, reminding him of who he is. His present. His past. Long evenings spent chasing a tangle-mopped schoolboy through the woodlands out the back of their house…

Daryl.

If Merle finishes this fight, he forfeits his best chance at finding him. His head droops. His shoulders follow suit as T-Dog’s warmth reinstates himself at his side. “Thassit,” he murmurs, patting Merle on the knee – a thoughtless intimacy that sends a jolt straight to his cock. “Lord above, there’s a temper and a half on you.”

Merle barks out a laugh, staring at his boots. His nails dig into his leg. Having only one hand means the gesture’s lopsided. The sharp pain ain’t enough. Merle wants more, _needs_ more…

Gargulio stands, knees wobbling inwards and threatening to buckle. He doesn’t retrieve his bottle. “I-I think I’m goin’ inside,” he says. Starts his shuffle for the door. Merle hawks a gobbit of spit into the fire while T-Dog watches Gargulio retreat.

“Looks like I’m the only idiot who can stand ya,” he says. The door creaking shut – and the sound of Gargulio clanking his numerous locks into place – gives Merle ample time to rethink his reply.

_Good. Because you’re the only idiot I want._

***

It’s past midnight when everything goes to shit. Merle and T-Dog have been conversing, the former’s speech increasingly garbled. Eventually the topic steers, as it always does, to Merle’s baby brother.

“D’you think we’ll find him?” Merle slurs. “D’you believe it?”

He’s staring at T-Dog so earnestly that T-Dog is hard-pressed not to lie. He fidgets uncomfortably, firelight glancing through his half-full bottle and reflecting from the sweat on his face. Above, the stars glitter icy silver, there being no streetlights left to obscure them. The night would be perfect, if only T-Dog had a better answer. “I dunno, Merle. I’m sorry. I wish I could be of more help to ya –“

Merle snorts. “Ain’t yer fault,” he mutters.

“Right,” says T-Dog, nodding along. “It’s this damn fucked-up world. Proper monster-swamp.”

“Ain’t that either.” Merle takes another long draft, spirits sliding between the sharp bristles of his stubble. He shakes the last drops of moonshine into his mouth – having finished his own bottle and the remains of Gargulio’s in the time it took for T-Dog to drain half. Despite the fact that he’s the less drunk of the two, T-Dog finds himself entranced by the play of light over Merle’s spittle-and-alcohol wet lips. Those lips shake as they shape his next words. “It’s my fault. Should never’ve made ya tie me to that rooftop. Should never have left him. He’s my goddam brother, T-Dog, and I were too busy snortin’ coke and lickin’ crystal to protect him.”

T-Dog’s floored – both by the earnestness of Merle’s words, and the use of his actual name. “You were addicted,” he manages to say. “Weren’t your fault –“

Merle laugh is harsh and gravelled as a smoker’s cough. “Don’t give me none of that bullshit. Yeah, it weren’t me who tanned my baby brother’s back. But I mighta well’ve done. Leavin’ him alone with that monster… The fuck was I thinkin’?” At the time, probably only about his next hit. T-Dog knows better than to voice that thought though, not unless he wants to be fed to the fire along with the extra kindling. Merle shakes his head. “I done him wrong, T-Dog. I done him so wrong. And… and somewhere along the line, I gotta pay.” This is usually the moment when T-Dog would recommend joining the church of Our Lord And Saviour, but he doubts that’d be well-received. Instead, he sets his bottle to one side. He eases Merle’s own from his white-knuckled fist. The heat of the fire warms his left cheek and the cool night chills his right. He faces Merle dead-on, gripping the man’s chin and lifting his drooping head until he looks him straight in the eye.

“How do I help you?”

Merle glances at the undersides of his fingers, where deep brown skin cedes into lighter bronze. For a moment, T-Dog thinks he’s about to be punched. After all, Merle’s more than demonstrated his stance on unsolicited, non-violent contact. But when Merle surges towards him, it’s not for the purpose of turning this tender moment into a brawl. That’s a shame. T-Dog’s expecting it – anticipating it, even. He dislikes seeing Merle so cowed, especially beneath the weight of his own guilt.

What he’s not expecting is to find Merle on his lap.

“I need it,” Merle whispers. He’s being quiet, and that’s unlike him. But what’s even more unlike him is the look on his face: eyes too large, mouth tight and nervous rather than spewing argumentative shit whenever it opens. “I need it, from you, an’ I need it hard. I need it to hurt.”

“Wh-what?” T-Dog’s almost too shocked to process. T-Dog’s straddling the log, and Merle’s straddling him. He’s heavy and warm, all taut muscle and dried sweat. He grinds lightly on T-Dog’s erection – _fuck,_ when did that happen? Well, it don’t mean nothing. It’s friction and heat and, and _biological imperatives,_ ; and he can spin himself every lie under the sun but it doesn’t change the fact that Merle’s _sitting on him,_ and T-Dog’s _hard._

“I want ya to hurt me,” he breathes. The squeeze and splay of his thighs, the hungry desperation in his hooded, half-lidded eyes, tell T-Dog that this is no joke. “Y’know you wanna. C’mon. After all the stuff I’ve said to ya, done to ya… You must wanna hurt me real bad.” When that gets no reaction but the stupefied open and close of his mouth, Merle leans in further. His bodyheat blazes like he’s got hell trapped beneath his skin as he hisses against T-Dog’s lips: “C’mon, you dumbass _nigger_. Hit me.”

T-Dog pushes him back. Not as far as he ought to. Merle’s face, flushed and furious yet unmistakably horny, hovers barely six inches from his own. “I – uh, no! I mean… I’d like to hit ya, but… C’mon, Merle. This ain’t you.”

Those wideblown pupils shrink, making Merle’s gaze less fey, less intense. T-Dog gets the strange impression that, for once in his life, Merle Dixon is completely and utterly serious. “Yeah it is,” he croaks. His shoulders hunch. That aggressive posturing slides away and reveals another man, a smaller man, one with grizzly greying hair just thick enough to curl and eyelashes that are surprisingly long when you get up close… But there’s no time to be considering the implications of _that_ thought. Merle curls over him. His fingers, which have been pressing on T-Dog’s shoulders, now creep to trace his jaw, tweaking the goatee that interrupts his smooth brown chin. “It’s me,” he says. Two small words. A confession and a declaration all at once.

Realization smacks T-Dog. This ain’t just alcohol talking. This is something deep-rooted and genuine, something which he has never outwardly _opposed_ , but never _endorsed_ nor _supported_ neither… How can this be real? No way is Merle fucking Dixon a faggot. He’s gotta be mistaken; must’ve misheard or misconstrued Merle’s drunken ramble…

And why is he still hard?

“I want ya to fuck me,” Merle says, removing any hint of doubt. He rocks on T-Dog’s lap, arching so the campfire light accentuates the muscle of his torso, the solidness of his core, the stiff cock outlined by his jeans. T-Dog’s hit by the inexplicable and ridiculous urge to obey. Rut him, pound him into the grub and detritus and leaf-litter. Find out if he can make this dirty, nasty redneck who’s crawled under his skin gasp and cuss and whimper his name…

Any other day and he’d settle for wiping that smarmy smirk off his face. Only Merle’s not smiling now. He’s watching T-Dog at close-range, hips swivelling slow and rhythmic over T-Dog’s full-swelled prick. T-Dog can’t help but buck to meet him when he reaches the crest of each orbit. Merle _purrs_ when their clothed cocks scrape, and guides T-Dog’s trembling hands to cup his ass through the denim.

“Want ya to go fuckin’ wild. Use me. _Break_ me. Make me _scream_ …”

…That’s a little further than T-Dog’s conscience allows him to go. Even in the midst of what is, by all accounts, a gay frottage session with Merle Dixon. If the surrealism’s knocked him out for a count, awareness of Merle’s words rouses him with a bucket of icy water, delivered directly to the crotch. T-Dog closes his palm over Merle’s mouth, stifling the next euphoric overspill that he doesn’t want to hear.

“You’re gonna regret this in the morning, bud.”

Merle moans appreciatively, eyes halved to slivers. T-Dog’s hand is already sweat-damp, from nerves and arousal and the heat of the fire. It only gets moister when Merle rolls his tongue over it and sucks his longest fingers into his mouth. His eyes repeat the earlier words without the need of language. It’s all demand and liquid fire: _hurt me, fuck me, use me up._

Yeah, T-Dog’s not tempted. At. All.

Aw hell.

“No,” says T-Dog. “No, no, _no._ You gotta stop this, Merle.” He scoots him further down his thighs, but doesn’t have the heart to push him all the way. It’s cold, without his body tucked close. T-Dog’s cock is getting difficult to ignore – the discomfort is only exacerbated by Merle’s growl, and the way he sneaks a last nuzzle and lap at T-Dog’s sticky fingers before releasing them.

“You ain’t no fun at all,” he gripes.

It’s so wonderfully, irreproducibly _him_ that T-Dog can’t help but laugh. The alcohol hasn’t hit him as hard as it’s hit Merle, but he’s tipsy enough that even a situation this serious can seem amusing. Merle, perched on T-Dog’s knees with arm crossed over stump and glare bordering pouty, would make a funny image any day, but it isn’t often that T-Dog actually has the lack of inhibitions to make his humour known.

Perhaps he does owe him something. Merle saved his life today, after all.

“Just one kiss,” he says, before Merle can get mad about being the butt of an unshared joke. “Just one. Then sleep, okay?”

He’s only agreeing to stop him making that put-upon face. So T-Dog tells himself as Merle lights up like a kid offered candy and all but liquefies onto him, chest to chest, kissing up T-Dog’s neck and nibbling his earlobe. “Uh. One kiss, I said.”

“I ain’t reached your mouth yet,” Merle murmurs. Tricksy jackass.

But then he does, and his stubble’s just as rough as T-Dog’s imagined, and his lips just as soft. He tilts his head and parts his lips, slotting against T-Dog like a jigsaw piece cut to fit, and flutters his tongue off T-Dog’s closed mouth until it opens and they can properly share spit.

It gets messier than intended. When he comes to his senses Merle’s groaning deep in his throat, arms looped around T-Dog’s neck in an unshakable collar that hauls him impossibly closer. T-Dog, in turn, having groped his ass and discovered it to be damn nice for that of a dude, is wondering when the fuck he turned into a fag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hope that's enough to whet your appetite~ More will follow, and it'll only get hotter from here. Tell me what you thought?**


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which T-Dog goes to church, says a prayer, and watches the wall.**
> 
> **CW: internalized homophobia, rampant Christianity.**   ****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sorry it's been so long... Drama in other fandoms. Hope you guys haven't forgotten what's going on in Woodbury!**

T-Dog makes the transition from week into weekend as he usually does: fast asleep. Yet he can’t help but feel that something changed while the world crawled by without him, perhaps irrevocably. He wakes besides the log. Merle’s wrapped around him, a man-sized python, drooling on his shirt. He’s warm and firm. Their bare arms have tacked together during the night, meaning T-Dog has to concentrate on peeling himself from Merle without waking him. Then he does as his self-preservation instincts demand, and scarpers.

It’s not a walk of shame. Not a full one, at least. Nothing happened besides a grope (and a grind, and a filthy Frenching that’s gonna be tickling T-Dog’s tonsils for the rest of the month). But T-Dog still senses eyes on him. Whether the owner of those eyes lurks behind Gargiulo’s windowpane or the clouds high above, he doesn’t bother to figure it out. He just clenches his fists. And, in a fit of uncharacteristic stupidity, punts his empty bottle through the ashes of the fire and into the wall, as hard as he can.

It shatters with an earsplitting crash. Five hundred cymbals of differing sizes and thicknesses are flicked at once. The echoes hang around longer than T-Dog. He spies Merle’s nose twitching, eyebrows crumpling in a preparatory scowl. And he makes good his escape.

***

On Saturday, T-Dog lays in bed and stares at the ceiling. Wendy asks him if he’s sick. T-Dog tells her no. Then hastens downstairs to sun his face for five minutes, just so the neighbors don’t fret that he’s hiding a bite-mark on the sly.

Lord knows what’d happen then. But T-Dog wagers it wouldn’t be pretty. While Merle Dixon is many things – _asshole, racist, surprisingly good kisser_ – he isn’t worth risking T-Dog’s life.

T-Dog glimpses the bounce of light off a prosthetic from where the wall watchers tramp back and forth between stations. Raising a hand to shield his eyes, he heads back inside.

***

On Sunday, T-Dog dithers about in his cluttered hallway until the sense of cooped-up claustrophobia grows too great to ignore. It’s useless. He can’t hide forever, and he won't be made a prisoner in his own damn town. He was in Woodbury first, so if Merle wants to avoid him he can do the legwork. Anyway, it’s no later than eight, and Merle won’t begin to stir until it nears noon. T-Dog tells himself to pull himself together, and heads for church.

He jogs along the highstreet, sparing the occasional nod and strained smile for those who attempt small-talk, just to reassure them that he’s not turned during the night. He’d kill for a perk-up. Not that he ever did the hard stuff. There’d been a brief foray into steroids back in his hardcore football-training days, but T-Dog had always been leery of results you didn’t have to work for, and he’d given up the drugs in favour of healthy eating and solid natural core strength. Sure, he now eats whatever the foragers can find, and his once-tight abdomen puffed as soon as he hit thirty. But nevertheless. The only thing Theodore Douglas wants to inject into his veins is a shot of pure caffeine.

God, and to think he used to complain about there being a Starbucks on every corner. The worst thing about the end of the world is the coffee shortage. There’s plenty of booze if you’re into liquid medicine – but T-Dog worries that once he starts drinking to forget, he’s not going to stop. It’d take more than one dram of moonshine to wash Merle Dixon’s taste from his lips. Church at least is simple, banal, routine. Everything Friday night wasn’t.

The schoolroom is freshly transformed. A wooden crucifix has been placed above the whiteboard, and patterned table cloths drape over the stacks of plastic chairs in the corner, crosses stitched by a neat if unornamented hand. Wildflowers list against each other in a white chipped vase. There’s no pews. No alter. None of the mysticism that first attracted T-Dog to the ways of The Lord. They aren’t even allowed to sing. The voices of a congregation raised in praise, once considered the pinnacle of human civilization, are now the greatest threat to it. T-Dog’s too smart not to recognize the irony.

There’s a space between Shona and Naomi. T-Dog makes a beeline, shooting Lucy a wave. The girl’s tucked into her auntie’s side, already looking half asleep. If this had been pre-Walker, T-Dog doesn’t doubt that she’d have her I-pad out, popping away at Candy Crush. He also doesn’t doubt that he’d never have spoken a word to her, given her and her auntie are from the trailer park and T-Dog belonged to a postcode that, while not predominantly white, was at least middle-class. That’s one bonus to the end of the world. Nothing forces people to foster genuine social connections like the threat of immanent disembowelment-by-geek. Although if this is (as some of the older folks whisper) The Almighty’s punishment for fags, porn, masturbation, and the rest of humanity’s accumulated sins, the man himself ought to show up in a lightning flash and take some damn responsibility.

…That sounds less like a T-Dog-thought, and more like a Merle-one. And Merle-thoughts are the last thing T-Dog wants right now.

Unfortunately, he has little choice in the matter. As he sits heavily, exhaling through his nose, Naomi shoots him a wry grin. “You didn’t bring your friend?” Why do people keep calling Merle that? T-Dog doesn’t want to correct her. He’s here for his weekly dose of salvation, and after the events of Friday night, he needs all the salvation he can scrounge.

“He wouldn’t be caught dead in this place.” Even if Merle died, his biter-self would steer well clear of this building, steeped as it is in the prayers of thirty devoted civilians. T-Dog knows, logically, that sanctification won’t protect him if the walls crumble and a horde razes Woodbury to ashy dirt, but it’s a pleasant fantasy. He likes to pretend that words like _refuge_ and _asylum_ still have meaning. …And there he goes, thinking about Merle again. There’s no doubt about it. He’s been spending too much time with him. Look where this so-called friendship’s gotten him: T-Dog has engaged in multiple brawls, had his status as a no-claims law abiding Woodbury citizen irrefutably tarnished, lost his second-last shirt (admittedly it’d been reclaimed, but that’s besides the point), and made out with another man.

Then there’s the dreams.

It’s sacrilegious to so much as _contemplate_ them here: on a bright and brisk-breezed Sunday, with the presence of The Lord all around. But try as he might to banish his sneaking sinful thoughts, T-Dog’s mind regurgitates reel after reel of dream-footage, like a snuff tape stuck on ‘play’. It’s disgusting. It’s disturbing. Especially for a guy who’s straight as a gatepost. It’s a shame his subconscious has other ideas. His dream features Merle and the pool they stomped laundry in. Nothing too heinous there. But whereas Merle had left the laundry-garden clad in grotty grey boxers and a pair of clumpy combat boots, alongside T-Dog’s shirt; in his nocturnal imaginings T-Dog had stripped him of all but the latter.

Perhaps that dream was actually a nightmare. He just hasn’t realized it yet.

“Dammit,” he mutters, undercutting the drone of the preacher and knuckling his forehead. He can’t do this. He can’t concentrate. T-Dog isn’t a guy for avoiding difficult situations, or for cutting himself slack in the privacy of his own mind. While it’s tempting to quit fidgeting and pray away the gay (not that this’s what that is, of course not! T-Dog’s just… stressed out. Frazzled from work; the constant fear of biters; the shock of finding Merle alive, kicking, challenging him to wrestling matches in the laundry pool, flirting, drinking, crawling onto his lap and demanding bleary-eyed whiskey kisses…) he’s too jittery to access the meditative plane that’s requisite for spiritual communication. He might as well make use of himself elsewhere.

“Where’re ya going?” Shona asks. T-Dog, raising from his cross-legged position, tries to shuffle unobtrusively for the door. Given they’re on their asses storytime style, a guy of T-Dog’s stature lumbering towards the exit is anything but subtle. T-Dog freezes at the end of their line, casting a nervous glance at the preacher – who continues to sermonize, turning the other cheek and pretending he hasn’t noticed one of his lambs breaking from the fold.

“Gotta go,” he stage-whispers.

“Where?”

“Home. Ain’t feeling too good.” It’s true. There’s a queasiness in his gut, and if T-Dog had been outside of Woodbury since his and Merle’s farmhouse excursion, he would’ve checked himself for bitemarks. Shona raises her eyebrows. They’re perfectly plucked, which says a lot both for Woodbury’s security and her steadfast beauty regime. But she doesn’t comment. Not that T-Dog’d reply anyway, given that he’s already over the threshold.

Home brings a much-needed reprieve. Wendy greets him at the door, clucking over a donation of five books that she can’t bend to lift. T-Dog smiles, squats, picks ‘em up and lugs them upstairs under her direction, blowing dust from their covers before slotting them onto the shelves. Their library spans two rooms downstairs and all three upstairs: T-Dog’s and Wendy’s included. As opening hours are officially from sunrise to sunset, they don’t have to worry about folks tramping in at all times of the night. When the sky darkens from ruddy to twilight, the shadows lengthening and blurring one into another, Wendy makes her doddering passage from kitchen to front door and ceremoniously locks up.

When that time comes, T-Dog, who’s spent his Sunday ensuring every book is arranged alphabetically by author, props his hands on his hips and grins at his handiwork. Even if the rest of the world’s descended into chaos, T-Dog still maintains order over this one fragment. An infinitesimally small fragment it might be, but what it lacks in magnitude it more than makes up for in importance. Standing here, near-immersed in darkness with the spines of Wendy’s beloved books stacked on all sides, T-Dog feels like he’s in control.

His subconscious disagrees.

T-Dog wakes halfway through the night, soggy with sweat and gasping. He’s also, to his consternation, hard as a boar in rut. This wouldn’t be so bad if it was just morning wood. Nothing shameful about that. What’s shameful are the accompanying memories, which stoke T-Dog’s arousal even as he digs his fingers into the musty bedsheets in an effort to keep them from toying with his sticky cock.

Merle.

Merle grinding rough and fierce, teeth bared, snarling in animal want. Merle slinging a leg over him and straddling him reverse-cowgirl, all hard muscle and roadgrit, whining as T-Dog lines himself up and – oh fuck, when did they become _naked?_

“Aw hell,” T-Dog whimpers. Which is exactly where he’ll be going unless he gets this under control.

T-Dog ain’t an out-an-out bible basher, even if he refuses to be ashamed of his religion. He’s a decent damn Christian, in his opinion. He goes to church every week – even if it’s only for five minutes – and mumbles the Lord’s Prayer when there’s geeks nearby or he’s lost his housekeys. Or, like right now, when he’s looking for guidance. His knees hit the floorboards with a bang, clumsy from tiredness. T-Dog would worry about waking Wendy, if he couldn’t hear her snoring from the room next door. His bed’s tucked between the towering bookcases, and what had seemed a comforting reminder of the human ability to categorize and catalogue not five hours ago now becomes a series of nightmarish forms, geometric and inhuman, their shadows falling across T-Dog’s back.

“Our father,” he begins, eyes squeezed shut like a child hiding from monsters. “Who art in heaven. Hallowed be thy name…”

He gets to ‘daily bread’ before his pulse soothes. Finishing the prayer, he slumps face-first on the bed, ignoring the thick scent of precum. A testing press reveals that his chub’s receded – not as much as it would’ve done if they had cold showers at their disposal, but that’s a luxury beyond what Woodbury can provide.

Perhaps he should go down the river in the morning; get a wash before school.

Perhaps he should invite Merle to join him.

T-Dog moans, and drags his pillow over his head in the hope he’ll smother himself. “Thine is the kingdom,” he repeats fervently. “The power and the glory. Forever and ever – please don’t let me be a fag. A-fucking-men.”

***

Next time he sees Merle, it’s Monday. Merle’s due out on his first patrol. It’s only right that T-Dog send him off – ain’t like Merle has anyone else hoping for his return.

Of course, he could avoid him entirely. After what happened on Friday night, T-Dog has every right to. But Merle has yet to confront him about the kiss, and given how much moonshine his brain was swimming in at the time, he may have forgotten it entirely. If there’s even a chance that his relationship with Merle hasn’t been jeopardized, T-Dog’s willing to run the risk. Because despite his frustration after failing to go one day – just one day! – without thinking about that damn redneck, T-Dog would be lying if he said he wanted to cut Merle out of his life.

And so. Here he is. Summer sky bright and cloudless above him, perfectly blue. Standing on the outskirts of the tiny crowd who wave the patrolmen goodbye. The wall crew are packing weapons into bags – melee mostly, ranging from crude sharpened flints to blunt baseball bats and hunting knives; anything that can pulverize a Walker’s brain. They nod and mutter amongst themselves and generally look busy.

Merle doesn’t assist with the drudge work. He’s up on the wall besides the Governor, silhouetted against the blinding midday sun. They’re exchanging words in an undertone. From a distance, they seem almost perfectly imbalanced – one tall, one short; one a natural beanpole, the other lean but broad-shouldered. And of course, there’s the discrepancy in the number of their hands.

Merle’s prosthetic catches the light, a streak of eye-aching silver. T-Dog squeezes his eyes shut to block it. When they open, Merle’s staring straight at him.

Shit.

His expression’s unreadable. But in that moment T-Dog’s convinced that Merle remembers each sizzling second they spent grinding against each other, tasting the booze on each other’s breath, lips locked and tongues curling, T-Dog clutching the worn denim jeans as they stretched tight over Merle’s ass…

Then a grin breaks over Merle’s face. At this distance, T-Dog can’t tell if it’s wicked or delighted. “Catch ya in five,” he says, making to clap the Governor on the shoulder – then hastily switches arms before he knifes him. The prosthetic’s still being broken in, it seems. He hops off the wall. That’s quite a drop – the Governor’s height, if not more – but Merle makes his landing effortless. Too powerful to be _graceful,_ unless it’s graceful in the way of tigers and wolves; something raw and masculine and untamable…

And wasn’t T-Dog supposed to _stop_ thinking like this?

“Merle,” he says, as the man approaches him. All of a sudden, every conversation topic evacuates his mind. Hoping for inspiration, T-Dog casts his eyes over the bustle by the gates: the men and women hauling canteens and jerry cans into the back of their jeeps. “First patrol today. You actually gonna help your buddies over there, or just watch?”

Merle’s smile fades. So does T-Dog’s. _Stupid. You’re trying to be nice, remember?_ Well, he’s doing a fantastic fucking job. Merle taps his prosthetic warningly off his thigh. T-Dog would rather keep his eyes on Merle’s – looking away would be like breaking the gaze of a spitting cobra. But that soft slap of metal hitting denim makes the hairs on his arms prickle. “Says the guy who spends his days in a schoolroom,” Merle sneers. “What, I beat the fight out of ya last time I punched you in yer stupid ni – uh, negro nose?” T-Dog decides to waive that one. After all, he’d insulted Merle first – insinuating that he was the sort of guy to watch a battle from afar, a man like the Governor.

This isn’t the direction their conversation was supposed to go.

T-Dog raises his hands. If Merle wanted to, he could stab him in the heart here and now, and T-Dog’d be helpless to resist. But he doesn’t. That’s a good sign. They may be moving in baby-steps – one forwards and three back, it seems – but progress is being made. For a start, rather than continuing his rant, Merle lets out a big whuff of air and pretends to be distracted watching Shona bend to pick a dropped cartridge from the dusty tarmac. The wolf-whistle he sends her way jars on T-Dog’s ears. He wonders if it sounds so fake to everyone.

Probably not. After all, if he hadn’t heard Merle’s drunk confession – _"Y_ _es it is. It’s me.”_ – he’d never have noticed.

It's just so easy to… assume. When you've got someone like Merle, who postures and gripes and acts like he's God’s Great Gift of Alpha Maledom, _assuming_  is as natural as breathing. Heck, T-Dog had the guy snogging him not three nights prior (and okay, maybe he’d been snogging back, just a little) and he still has difficulty believing Merle is anything but straight. Shona, if her loud cackle and the way she flicks that cartridge at Merle’s head is any indication, entertains zero doubts.

Who knows? A few days in the wilderness with her at his side might convince Merle he’s mistaken. All of that night (the brush of chapped lips, the pant of rum-flavored air) was one big accident, a slip-up never to be repeated. That’s certainly how T-Dog chooses to interpret it. So why does the thought that Merle might do the same make his lungs feel like they’re being crushed?

“Oi, spearchucker.” Merle watches him from the corner of one shrewd grey eye. He yawns, scratching the scruffy stubbly on his chin with the blade. “Yer actin’ weird. Ya ain’t got heatstroke standin’ out here with that big bald head o’yours on display?”

T-Dog shakes himself. Forces a smile. “No.”

“Why ya here anyway? You changed yer mind about wantin’ to run patrols?” He sounds mocking. But T-Dog’s either delusional – likely, given the heat and the fact that all he can think about is how that unique Merle-concoction of body odor and sun-hot metal fills his nostrils and _he doesn’t mind_ – or he’s just gotten to know Merle well enough, through all the fighting and wrestling (and making out; god, _shut up_ ) to know when he’s hopeful.

T-Dog shakes his head. “Pass. I ain’t driving into the hellhole out there, not voluntarily. You go knock yourself out.”

“Hm.” Merle shoots him another of those half-teasing half-interrogating looks. He pats T-Dog’s cheek with his knife blade, crimping the goatee. “You’ll be here when I get back, I guess. Thas’ somethin’.”

And then he turns and walks away. He ignores T-Dog’s guppy-mouthed stutters, as he tells Merle’s retreating back that he’s under no obligations to linger around the gates every evening on the hope the patrol might return. Just lifts his prosthetic in a parting wave, hauls himself into the Governor’s waiting jeep, and cuts out of Woodbury in a roar of dust and gravel.

***

Naomi’s shrewd enough to notice that T-Dog’s waiting for the patrol, rather than just lingering more than usual on his trek back to the library. But it takes her three days to confront him about it.

T-Dog perches on a cracked wall. Half of it has disintegrated into rubble. Whether that happened before or after the world turned to shit, it ain’t gonna be repaired any time soon, not unless the patrol comes back with a nice fat sack of ready-made cement. But right now, T-Dog’d give anything for the patrol to come back at all.

He doesn’t notice Naomi until she takes a seat beside him. Then he jumps, almost flinging the textbook at her. “Christ!”

“Not like you to take our Lord’s name in vain, Theodore. And after leaving church in such a hurry last week… Are you having a crisis of faith?” Her voice is teasing though, and T-Dog lets himself react in kind: big shoulders drooping, deathgrip relaxing from the textbook’s poor dog-eared spine, the book lowered to rest on a hamhock of a thigh. He’s been perusing it half-heartedly, sounding out the words to himself and trying to formulate the concepts in his brain, so he can regurgitate them to his class tomorrow and sound like he knows what the fuck he’s talking about. _Pi-R-Squared, area of a circle. 2-Pi-R, circumference_. Sure, he studied this shit in high school, but that was years ago. T-Dog’s current brain plasticity would make a dinosaur look smart.

“I’m fine,” he says, turning the page. “Me and the big guy up there? We’re tight. Like this.” A pair of crossed fingers demonstrate. Naomi pats his shoulder.

“Glad to hear it. But I’m still a lil’ intrigued as to what you’re doing out here in the evening. Nights ain’t drawing in just yet, but we can’t have our only schoolteacher straining his eyes.”

T-Dog gives them a big roll to prove they’re still functional. “What’re _you_ doing out late?” he asks. It’s a painfully obvious deflection – and, from the pause, Naomi knows it. But her smile stays perky, teeth gleaming white and even as a model in a Colgate advert. She answers his question breezy-smooth, as if they’re discussing the weather.

“Y’never know what they might find out there. Or who.”

T-Dog could’ve kicked himself. When was it she lost him? Five months back? Six? It was in the week before T-Dog arrived, he knew that much.

His first memory of Naomi: a stately, beautiful woman who watched the convoy roll into Woodbury, her smile a bright slice of reflected moonlight. She’d heard the whispers. They’d found someone. A man, disorientated and dark-skinned, stumbling away from a burning farm… Her hope burnt lower with each consecutive body that emerged from the Jeeps’ gravel-pitted doors. It snuffed completely when T-Dog descended. Last man out, he sheepishly rubbed the back of his head as the removal of his weight made the whole vehicle bounce.

“Hi,” he’d said to her.

Naomi hadn’t replied. Not immediately. All animation drained from her; she looked deader than the walkers the patrollers had battled through to find their way home. When she plastered on her grin for the second time it was like sun-bleached bunting: strung up every year, but fading more and more with each display. And although she’d come over to meet him and pumped his hand like they were old friends, and said “Welcome to Woodbury; you’re safe here” before the Governor could get the words out his mouth; T-Dog knows Naomi has never forgiven him for not being the man she’s waiting for.

The plastic cover of the textbook is clammy from his sweat. Self-conscious, he wipes his palm on his jeans before laying it over hers. No words needed. Just a squeeze. Anything less would be cold; anything more wholly inadequate.

Beneath her smile dwells the longing for a subject-change. T-Dog obliges: “Hey. You any good at maths?”

As it turns out, she is.

That’s how they spend the rest of the evening, long after the other watchers trail away. No one wants to be first to admit defeat. No one wants to turn their back in case a shriek of acceleration sounds on the horizon and Woodbury’s heroes return, blood-stained but glorified. Or worse: injured, infected, crawling home to die. But eventually, the lure of their beds grows too strong.

T-Dog feels that pull. He spares a glance for the nearly-set sun, which illuminates the wall’s stark incline like a blood drizzled cliff. “I think we better head,” he says, as Naomi sketches graphs with her fingers and does her best to teach him the basics of BIDMAS. “S’nearly dark.”

“So it is.” Naomi pushes to her feet with a groan. “Damn. Municipal building’ll be all out of stew. Guess I go hungry tonight.”

“Well, Wendy can’t make it to the municipal building anyway, and I make a mean squirrel stew. If they’ll spare us the basics, I can have it whipped up in under an hour. More than enough to share.”

Naomi’s smile edges into something more genuine. “Thank you,” she says. She hands him the textbook when he makes to stand, but T-Dog shakes his head.

“Nah, keep it. Makes more sense to you anyway.” He’ll deal with tomorrow’s lesson when he gets to it. For now, there’s squirrels to be skinned.

***

The week continues as it always does. Playing children hushed by their parents. T-Dog blagging his way through class after class. The faint firecracker pop of walkers being shot from the wall.

It’s Friday by the time the patrol returns, and T-Dog’s almost gnawed off his nails. Is Merle alive? Is Merle coming back? Did he catch the scent of his brother on the wind and vanish, sprinting out of T-Dog’s life as swiftly as he’d entered it?

But no – there he is; right in the spotlight. Hanging out the door of the Governor’s jeep, arm hooked through the open window and prosthetic waving like a semaphore flag. Attention hogger. But T-Dog can’t help but smile. Merle jumps from the truck before the engine can grind to a halt. The momentum gives him extra speed – he almost thuds face-first into T-Dog, who’s helping close the gates.

“Zulu warrior!” is the first thing he says. He’s breathless and wild; sweat trickles along the tendon that latches his jaw to his collarbone, staining the underarms of his wifebeater. T-Dog can smell him: gasoline and walker-gunk and the open road. “Fuck, spearchucker. Ya sure are missin’ out, stayin’ cooped up in yer lil’ schoolroom…” He trails off. His smirk notches wider when he registers T-Dog’s expression. “Wazzup? You forget about me, or somethin’?”

His voice is flippant, but a heat stirs under the dry leaves in his throat. T-Dog exhales, trying to calm his pulse to safe levels. He’s spent a week clamping down on his fantasies, with negligible success. Then Merle appears before him in the flesh, bolder and brasher than ever, like a kick to the teeth that T-Dog yearns to suffer again and again…

“Forget about you?” he chokes, as Merle steers him into a greeting headlock and rubs his knuckles on his bald scalp. “I wish I knew how.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **T-DOG JUST CAN'T QUIT YOU, MERLE.**
> 
> **I love and cherish every comment!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **In which Merle eats stew and T-Dog fusses.**

He makes his customary offer to Naomi – “Stew’s on the go, if you're hungry”. It’d be rude _not_ to invite Merle when he's standing right there, even if the man's daubed with the grit and gristle of his last battle. But for some reason, T-Dog balks at doing so.

There’s a feralness to Merle’s posture that he hasn’t seen since they were on that rooftop in Atlanta, sun lashing them with unbridled force, sweat clogging T-Dog’s pores, mind mushy from the heat. Back then, he’d blamed Merle’s… well, Merle’s _everything_ on the drugs. Now, he’s not so sure. The high had been exacerbated by meth and coke and whatever else Merle'd snorted before he decided popping Walkers in the brain with a sniper rifle was a fun way to while away the hours. But the drugs hadn't _caused_ it. That was all-Dixon. And right now, fresh from the battlefield and stinking warmly of sweat and dead walker, Merle’s restless as a damn mosquito.

T-Dog wants to grab his wrist, pin him, anything to keep the jittery fool still. But he suspects Merle’s hair-trigger has been split finer than ever. Right now, touching him’s as liable to earn T-Dog a hug as a knee to the groin. However, regardless of whether Merle's ready to rejoin civilization, T-Dog had better extend the offer. Just so he doesn’t offend him.

 _Sure,_ murmurs a mocking voice in his head, which sounds suspiciously like Shona. _That’s why you want him to come eat yer damn fine home cookin’. Because you’re afraid he might snap otherwise, not because you wanna flip him on his belly and –_

T-Dog thumbs over his shoulder, to where Wendy’s library lists crookedly on the opposite side of the street. “Wanna tag?” he asks.

***

T-Dog and Naomi had, until Merle’s return, been spending their nights discussing the future of the school. If the Governor was still mulling over Merle’s hypothesized gladiatorial gigs, heavens knew how long it’d take him to okay T-Dog giving the kids basic survival training. But, T-Dog thought, if he listened to Naomi, he’d understand.

“It’s stupid,” she says, flapping the textbook pages so fast they could be mistaken for the wings on a frustrated pigeon. “Why’re we teaching ‘em _algebra?_ Algebra won’t save them when the wall falls.”

She said ‘when’, not ‘if’. That’s practically slander in Woodbury. Naomi knows it, if the way her hand darts to her mouth, trying to cram the words back in, is any indication. T-Dog hastens to reassure her. “You’re right. If we gotta be prepared for worst-case-scenario, so’ve they. Look – let’s get something formalized. A few lesson plans here an' there: hand to hand self-defence, knife-work and the like.”

Naomi nods. “I’m sure the laundry girls would be willing to pitch in. Those’re their kids, after all.”

Merle yawns and helps himself to seconds. The dollop slithers from the ladle, landing in his bowl with a greasy plop. “Your girls? Teachin’ brats to throw a punch? Don’t make me laugh, Cocoa Puff.”

Rounding on him, Naomi jabs her spoon in his face. Her scowl is highlighted by the glimmer of the low-burnt campfire, which fuzzes close to its embers in Wendy's backyard, fed on stripped branches and whatever detritus that blows over the wall. “I don’t see _you_ volunteering.”

Merle dismisses her with a snort, in between shovelling mouthfuls. He gobbles fast, either forgetting to breathe or not needing to, stuffing his cheeks, chewing with his mouth open. T-Dog'd mistake him for a starving dog, if he didn't know that Dixons were raised savage. “Nah. I got me a job. Nowhere in the description does it mention _babysittin’._ ”

“You call teaching the next generation survival skills  _babysitting?_ ”

“Yeah.” Merle bites down on the jellified chunk of squirrel he's about to lose, teeth clacking around the spoon. Swallows with a noisy gulp. Belches. “Like you call laundry _important._ ”

Asshole. It’s unsurprising that it takes Naomi five minutes in Merle’s company to decide that her time'd be spent more productively elsewhere – and that remaining any longer will leave her with no choice but to strangle him. “You boys have fun,” she says, as she helps Wendy from her lawnchair. “I’ll put nana here to bed.”

Her gait is hampered by Wendy, who looks ready to fall asleep on her feet. Merle hooks one arm over the back of his chair, the cracked plastic back bending dangerously. He waves his spoon in farewell. Squirrel-stock splatters the grass. “Later, ladies! Hate t'see ya go, love t'watch ya leave, an' all that.”

Naomi spares him an exasperated glare. The door doesn't quite slam – that's a bad idea after dark, when who-knows-what might be lurking feet away, separated from humanity only by the Woodbury wall. But the latch snaps with finality, and Merle and T-Dog are left once more in a deserted fireside ring, only each other for company.

Merle sniggers. “What? Wassit somethin' I said?”

The cuff T-Dog delivers to the back of his head is playful. For once, Merle takes it that way rather than as an excuse for a brawl. He elbows back, just to show willing, but the majority of his concentration is on packing as much food into his body as possible. Perhaps T-Dog ought to reassess his prior diagnosis – that Merle simply doesn't have the manners or the patience to guzzle at a normal pace. Has he eaten since the patrol left? Not much – only forage and scraps. No time for cooking when the wild is full of walkers.

Merle doesn't slow to savor the meal until his final mouthfuls. By then he's got his bowl balanced on one knee, top button popped and stump hand rubbing the post-dinner swell of his belly. He mulls over the last of the stew, swilling his bite from cheek to cheek like he's tasting wine. He seems to be enjoying himself. Warm, fed, fresh from a raid – T-Dog suspects this is as close to contentment as a man like Merle Dixon knows.

Then it all goes wrong.

Merle's eyebrows pucker. His tongue quests something out amid the half-chewed mush in his mouth. Gristle? A chit of squirrel-bone? Adds protein, Naomi had claimed – but who knows; perhaps rednecks have delicate palettes. They're side by side, straddling separate deckchairs rather than sharing a log. Safer that way. A traitorous hot pulse rushes into his groin as Merle swings to perch side saddle, one leg kicked over the flimsy plastic arm so he can squint at T-Dog face-on. T-Dog fights against it with every ounce of his being. He finishes his own mouthful before enquiring, nudging his bowl against Merle's so pewter clips pewter, anything to avoid touching his skin.

“'Sup, man? You find a bone or something?”

Merle shakes his head. He's removed his prosthetic. It rests on his chairleg, besides Merle's scuffed combat boots, which have been pried off so his sweaty feet can enjoy their first airing in five days (to Naomi's vocal protests). The metal bulb looks uncomfortable. Heavy and stuffy; hot as hell in the late Georgia summer. T-Dog can't imagine what it must be like to have that grate against your stump day-in, day-out. The striations from the straps crisscross the pasty meat of Merle's forearm, angry red like lashes from a whip. When they heal, they'll be paler than the surrounding flesh, bleached whiter-than-white by the lack of sun. T-Dog's unsurprised to see that the skin's rubbed raw, although he does wince in sympathy.

Merle had borne it, of course. Because Merle was Merle, and Merle never took a challenge lying down. T-Dog bets he didn't take his knife-hand off once while they were outside Woodbury's walls. And he also bets that for all of Mamet's insistence that Merle treat his wound gently, wearing the prosthetic only one in three days, the Governor let him.

Right now though, Merle's squint has become an all-out scowl. He swallows his last mouthful, and T-Dog tries to pretend his eyes aren't drawn to the bob of his throat. “Where'd ya learn to make this,” he asks, gesturing to his scraped-clean bowl.

Oh. That. T-Dog works around the name without sounding it: _Daryl._ It'd been Daryl who caught him watching as he skinned the squirrel. He didn't tell him to quit his rubbernecking, or scoot away to a more private location. Just shuffled over and welcomed T-Dog at his side with a monotonous grunt, giving his eyes unfettered access to the way his knife hooked and slit through the ligaments.

T-Dog rests his bowl on the grass. “Where d'you think,” he asks quietly. He doesn't know what he expects – Merle to sock him, Merle to laugh, Merle to swear up a storm at the reminder of his lost baby brother. What he's not anticipating is for the man's mouth to pull into a sour sneer – one that looks self-directed. Shit. T-Dog remembers what happened the last time Merle started to blame himself for Daryl's absence. It wound up with him slung over T-Dog's lap, hot and heavy, air between them muggy as a swamp as they panted and ground, tongues sliding into one another's mouths just on the rough side of sexual...

_I need it from ya. And I need it to hurt._

It takes effort to batten those memories down. T-Dog closes the distance between them, hand dropping onto Merle's thigh in what he tries to tell himself is comfort. Whether or not Merle will take it as such is another matter. Sure enough, Merle jerks. But no fist comes flying towards T-Dog's face, and there's no shouting, so he must be doing something right. T-Dog lets his fingertips dig in, just a little. The muscle's like warm plasticine. Solid it first, it softens under T-Dog's grip, and what was intended to be a comradely pat turns into a drawn-out squeeze. “Once we find him, you can compare mine and his.”

Merle's expression teeters on the precipice between shock and anger. Dammit, but T-Dog still doesn't know how much of _that night_ he remembers, and he's been holding his leg for way too long... But letting go will only give Merle more mobility. That's practically _asking_ for him to kick him. If T-Dog doesn't want this to escalate, he'd better leave his hand right where it is – sandwiching the leg not kicked over the chairarm into the brittle seat. Which is precisely what he does. He's rewarded as Merle's features gradually relax, settling into a grin.

“When did it become 'we', Zulu Warrior?” He's not _really_ quibbling the semantics. T-Dog knows this, because his mouth's quirked up along one side, and despite the bags under his eyes and the dirt and sweat-salt crusting his wifebeater, Merle looks almost pleased.

T-Dog should drop his hand back onto his lap. Stop this getting awkward. Or hot – the sun's long-since kissed the horizon line, but it's still uncomfortably warm, and the croak of crickets provides a soporific meditation track to which T-Dog, belly satisfied and palm filled out by warm thigh, could easily fall asleep to. “Since you first socked me in the face at the library, idjit. We're the last survivors of the Atlanta camp. We gotta find our group.”

“Tell yerself that, sweetheart. Only person I gotta find is my baby brother.”

Merle jigs his leg; not enough to bounce T-Dog away, or even for the motion to be construed as an unspoken request for release. (That'd be plain out-of-character; why would Merle bother letting body language do the talking when he can do it himself, loudly, obnoxiously and at high-volume?) His calf muscle clenches and relaxes, alternatively filling out his jeans and letting them hang. T-Dog watches it, as if from a distance. Everything's a little off-kilter. A little detached; a little wavery around the edges. As far as he knows T-Dog's already nodded off, making this right here a lucid dream. His conviction only increases as time moves on. The space between them doesn't become any more pronounced. No way would _real-_ Merle let him touch him for this long without lashing out. _Real-_ Merle would holler and sputter and use this as an excuse for a fight. Not... _sit._ Still and compliant for once in his life, his only movement the slow, lazy squirm of his bare toes into the sand.

Or perhaps Merle's feeling what he's feeling. Perhaps he's thinking, as T-Dog is, that if the world complies and the biters stay beyond the wall where they belong, he could sit out here forever.

Like all good things though, their moment comes to an end. T-Dog ought to be grateful that this end is not sticky, gruesome, and accompanied by an unholy chorus of Walker-grunts and screams. The wall loops through the rear of Wendy's overgrown garden. The tyres and stacked shed-roofs that comprise its flank have melted together in the midday heat; they're glossed into a single mass by the setting sun, organically shapeless and uniformly amber. It has, until this moment, been empty. Then a figure appears. The tramp of their boots is lost amid the other sounds of Woodbury at sundown: geeks moaning outside the front gate, the quiet crank of the well, the everpresent hum of midges as night draws in. Twilight fuzzes the edge of the interloper; their identity is impossible to guess. The same hopefully goes in reverse. But that doesn't stop Merle from leaping away from T-Dog like a spooked cat, all but flying off his chair. He jogs to the wall, snapping over his shoulder:

“Watch where yer touchin', Mr Yo! Don'tchu go makin' free an' easy with my body – oh, hey Shona. Didn't see ya there.”

Oh yeah. He's not obvious _at all._ T-Dog resists the urge to drop his face into his hands – if only because he knows the left one would still be warm from Merle's knee, and it might _smell like him,_ and if he puts it to his face and inhales that's a surefire path to trouble. “Shona,” he greets as the woman saunters into view. His struggle to be polite fails. Dammit, talk about shoddy timing...

Merle is oblivious – or at least, projecting so hard that he might as well be. He swaggers closer, somewhere between aggressive and afraid, like a kid who's been dared to touch a flame. “What'chu doin' out so late, huh hon? Wanna join us? Or is it just a piece of ol' Merle yer after? Thought ya got enough of that while we was out patrollin'...”

T-Dog doesn't need to look at him to see his leer. It'll be perfect – Merle's certainly practised it enough. “Merle,” he says. Quiet. Sincere. “Stop it. C'mon, let's just go inside...”

Shona's laugh husks low; a smokey rattle. She hunkers down, crouching at the edge of the wall, grey-streaked hair fading into the winelike spill of evening light, one hand braced on each bony knee. The gun in her waistband digs into her side. There's one knife sheathed in a knife holster and another on her hip. This isn't the woman T-Dog stomped laundry with – she's a huntress, back from the forest. She's also grinning, tobacco-stained teeth glinting like polished yellowwood.“You old flirt,” she says, flicking Merle's ear. “Don't'chu worry, boys. I ain't here to stay. Just figured I'd come tell ya the Governor'll be swinging by this stretch of wall.”

How courteous of her. T-Dog tugs the collar of his t-shirt, sweat darkening the underarm seam. He can't allow himself to wonder how much Shona's seen, because then he'll never stop. However, he knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth – or a gift secret-keeper. Whatever Shona might have glimpsed – the knead of brown fingers up a jean-clad thigh; Merle's canines snagging on his underlip as he warred against the urge to press closer – she won't utilize it for her own gain. The Governor, on the other hand...

Merle's smirk doesn't waver. But he's all but vibrating – suspicion and agitation and a hearty dose of thwarted frustration, waiting for the opportune moment to transmute into rage. “You tell all the houses on the way?” he asks, faux-chipper. “Or we jus' special?”

“No.” Shona doesn't bother lying. “Ain't no concern of theirs. You're the one he's wantin' to see.”

“Me? Hell, I just got outta car with the man! We been sharin' space for a whole damn week; couldn't he have said somethin' then?”

Shona shrugs. Claps Merle on the shoulder then creaks to stand, muscle pulling taut beneath her weathered, freckled skin. “Heck if I know, boss. You need a hand to get up here?” Identical sunburn stripes peel across her and Merle's noses, and T-Dog thinks, not for the first time, how well-matched they'd be. They're both lean and mean, Shona with the leggy musculature of a greyhound (despite being late into her forties; curse fast metabolisms and himself for not inheriting one), whereas Merle has the shoulders and firm waist of a survivalist rather than a bodybuilder. Imagining them popping walker-skulls side by side is far too easy.

T-Dog catches Merle's bicep. “Nah. I got this.” The man's puffed up at being called 'boss'. Anger forgotten, he looks eager to scramble up onto the wall and prance about by the Governor's side, T-Dog forgotten. But if he wants to go so badly, he can at least let T-Dog be the one to help him.

He squats, interlacing his fingers. They form a stirrup into which Merle can step. Then it's a boost and a grunt and a heave – Merle grabs Shona's proffered hand, hauling himself the rest of the way. He almost kicks T-Dog in the gob as he swarms onto the wall's broad promenade. Ungrateful shit. But he chuckles when he's up there, bare feet kicking like a child who's conquered their first tree, and T-Dog doesn't have it in him to be mad.

Merle's back is to the setting sun. He stoops to bestow a parting noogie on T-Dog's skull, T-Dog shuffling to allow it. He keeps his head bent longer than necessary. Inhales the smell of baked tyres and walker-blood rolling off the wall, as the chill left in the wake of Merle's retreating knuckles washes over his crown, and only looks up when the rustle of denim informs him Merle's making to stand. Silhouetted, he looks more animal than man. Like some crepuscular thing freshly crawled from its burrow, inhabiting the twilight like a second skin. That fades as Merle unfurls. His grin catches the ruddy glare from the fire and the sun as if he's swigged a cup of blood, and he inclines his stump in what's either a wave or a lazy salute before stalking away from him, toes splayed for balance on the tyres.

“Ain't you taking your boots?” T-Dog calls after him. “And your arm-thingie?” As soon as the words have left he regrets them. Last person he needs to mother-hen is Merle Goddamn Dixon.

Merle Goddamn Dixon snorts, still facing the shadows from which the Governor is due to lope. He waggles one foot to show off his dirty blisters. And eugh – he's upwind. T-Dog pulls a face. Point taken. Doubtlessly Merle's stump is just as sore – and like Shona, he'll have enough knives stashed about his person to send a metal detector into the mechanical equivalent of heart failure. Plus, he'll be meeting the Governor and his retinue. He's far from unprotected.

So why is watching him leave so difficult?

T-Dog clears his throat. Nods to their stacked bowls, the white-bleached deck chairs, the cozy smoulder of the fire. “Same time tomorrow, yeah?” All prayers to keep the desperation from his voice are ignored. That's what he gets for going full-fag. Shona's chuckle leaves his cheeks burning, as Merle tosses an eye-roll over his shoulder.

“Whatever. I'll catch ya later, T-Dog.”

Try as he might, T-Dog can't convince himself that the throb at hearing Merle say his name is centered anywhere except his cock.

***

Merle yawns, falling into step besides the Governor – who crooks a brow at his bare feet, but doesn't comment. “What'chu want with me, big man?”

The Governor's flanked, as usual, by a couple of goons. Merle can't be bothered to learn their names – he makes an effort occasionally, but he'd rather call 'em as he sees 'em, which means these fine fellas are 'Protein Shake' and 'Steroids'. He doesn't think he's ever heard them talk. But he's seen them put down walkers on the Governor's orders – and, while out on their lil' beyond-the-walls excursion, a group of wanderers too, deemed too dangerous to be led back to Woodbury's gates.

Merle tries not to think about what might happen should the Governor decide Daryl falls under that category. Or rather, he tries not to let his satisfaction show on his face, as he pictures sliding his knifeblade through his eyesockets.

"Well?” he asks. “You take me out here to give me some kinda shovel talk?” The Governor's given his bodyguards the signal that they can fall back, leaving the pair of them to step out onto the furthest stretch of Woodland wall alone. And they _are_ alone, Merle notices. No friendly faces in sight – or less friendly, gore-splattered ones. Those'd converge pretty quick if the Governor gouged a knife between his ribs and shoved him into the dry bracken growing against the wall's far side. But if Merle goes over, he's damn well taking the Governor with him. He doesn't think he has much to fear though. The Governor made no indication that he was displeased with Merle's conduct, as they slashed their way through hordes and humans alike to retrieve this latest cache of weapons and stock. And anyway, Merle's known men like him. They're subtle. If he wanted Merle gone, he wouldn't see it coming – this shindig's far too obvious.

Merle still makes sure the Governor sees the knife in his belt, flashing a sharp-edged smile that just _dares_ him to get any bright ideas. “Because lemme tell ya, if this is you tryin' t'spook me, you ain't doing a very good job.”

“What? No.” The Governor looks shocked Merle would suggest such a thing. “No, of course not. I simply desired to speak to you in private. About your gladiator matches – and about how you want to go about facilitating them.” He holds up a finger before Merle can celebrate. Wise – the whoop would've given away their position to any biters residing behind the shrubline. “If we're doing this, I want it done properly. That means safety procedures, Merle. It means you and me sitting down in my office and talking this through like civilized men, rather than just hurling the citizens into the ring and letting everything work itself out. Do you think you can handle that?”

Merle doesn't take kindly to being shushed. But he supposes that just this once, he can make an exception. “Course I can,” he boasts, smacking his chest with the flat of his remaining hand as the Governor smiles down at him, squinting to shield his eyes from the low red sun. “I'm yer lieutenant, ain't I?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **It's been a while, huh? Hope there's still some interest in this fic... Comments, as always, are appreciated if not treasured. Leave them any chapter, any time.**

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wrote this while being tortured by exam stress. If people want the rating to go up, I will gleefully forcefeed you smut, but I'm also happy to keep it bordering Mature with only the odd sexual reference. Tell me what you think!
> 
>  
> 
> Please, _please_ comment. It's all that motivates me!


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